


The Incalculable Power

by Warriora



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: BAMF Harry Potter, Drarry, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, First War with Voldemort, Grief/Mourning, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Marauders Era (Harry Potter), Master of Death Harry Potter, No Bashing, Post-Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Draco Malfoy, Slow Burn, Time Travel, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 08:14:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 50,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28632333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Warriora/pseuds/Warriora
Summary: A month after the Battle of Hogwarts, war-scarred, pre-Auror recruit Harry has a new target: Antonin Dolohov, the man who killed Remus Lupin.When a tip from Malfoy leads Harry, Ron, and Hermione into an ambush, however, Harry’s Master of Death power awakens and sends him— and Malfoy— to the time of Dolohov’s first murder in 1978. As Harry and Draco struggle to find their way home while (re)doing their seventh year at Hogwarts, Voldemort is at the height of his power in the First Wizarding War. And, despite not being born yet, he’s still targeting Harry. Harry and Draco fight for their lives and their future, burdened with the knowledge of what will happen to everyone around them.The Marauders, on the other hand, are more concerned with pranks, love, and N.E.W.T.s than the war outside the castle.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, James Potter/Lily Evans Potter
Comments: 133
Kudos: 243
Collections: Harry Potter Fanfiction Favorites, I Found These Masterpieces And Fell In Love





	1. He could not draw breath

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. This fanfic is purely nonprofit. 
> 
> Thank you to Stoneage_Woman for the beta read! I couldn't imagine tackling this project without you.
> 
> Alright, my loves, this is going to be a long one. Here we go!

* * *

_Harry had a clear view of the bodies lying next to Fred: Remus and Tonks, pale and still and peaceful-looking, apparently asleep beneath the dark, enchanted ceiling. The Great Hall seemed to fly away, become smaller, shrink, as Harry reeled backward from the doorway. He could not draw breath. He could not bear to look at any of the other bodies, to see who else had died for him. He could not bear to join the Weasleys, could not look into their eyes, when if he had given himself up in the first place, Fred might never have died. . . . He turned away and ran up the marble staircase. Lupin, Tonks . . . He yearned not to feel . . . He wished he could rip out his heart, his innards, everything that was screaming inside him. . . ._

-Rowling, J.K.. Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows (pp. 661-662)

* * *

**Chapter 1: He could not draw breath**

"You don't have to do this, you know," said Ron quietly, from where the trio stood in front of the wrought-iron gates leading into the Malfoy Estate. He was looking out of the corner of his eye at Hermione, whose eyes were too bright and whose lips were in a hard, firm line. "You don't have to go back in there. Harry'n I'll handle it."

"Don't be ridiculous," said Hermione, in her familiar no-nonsense tone. Harry and Ron pretended not to notice the way she gripped her forearm as if the wound still hurt. _Mudblood._ "It could be a trap. You two wouldn't last five minutes without me."

Harry and Ron shared a look.

They hadn't needed words for moments like this in months.

When— if— Draco betrayed them, they would get Hermione out of there first, even if it killed them.

"Come on," said Harry, giving Ron an almost imperceptible nod.

He led the way down the long, elegant driveway, Hermione on his right and Ron on his left.

Lucius and Narcissa had fled to their summer home in France, but Draco had stayed after the battle.

Harry didn't know why. Voldemort had occupied that home. His followers had bled their darkness into every nook and cranny. He could only imagine the number of innocents who had lost their lives to the Death Eaters for _sport_ in those fancy sitting rooms and dining halls.

If Draco had had any sense, he would have burned it to the ground, or at the very least, left with his parents. And yet, he was still here.

A house-elf answered the door, looking just as drawn and haggard as the rest of them. The little elf led them silently to a room on the far side of the house. She didn't ask who they were or offer to take their cloaks. She didn't fall over herself to tempt them with tea or biscuits. She simply stared and then started down the entrance hall, through the dining room and portrait gallery, and expected them to follow.

Ron held Hermione's hand.

Harry clenched his fists.

The elf knocked twice on an innocuous door and then vanished with a _pop!_

After an uncomfortable moment in which the trio catalogued the points of ingress and egress, potential hiding spots or weapons, the door swung open.

Draco Malfoy stood blinking at them.

Harry crossed his arms. Ron held Hermione close against his side. Hermione's eyes glinted with a hard, bright light.

Draco scrubbed his hand over his face. It looked like he hadn't shaved in weeks.

"Right," said Draco, and he stood aside, motioning them into the room. "I found something I thought might interest the Aurors. I didn't expect them to send you three."

Though obviously worn thin, he hadn't lost his tone of utter disdain.

Harry scowled, bristling automatically.

"The Aurors tend to give us what we want," he said, "and get out of our way. You should follow their lead."

"They tried training us as recruits," Ron offered with a deceptively careless shrug, "but it turns out Hermione taught us all that rot in our first month of On the Run Bootcamp."

"Do you have information on Antonin Dolohov or not?" asked Hermione, pushing forward with that hard look in her eyes.

Draco sighed and ushered them in.

The room was a small study about the size of a professor's office. The walls were lined in bookshelves and the odd magical trinket here or there, and the main desk sat facing the two large windows overlooking the gardens. There were no spare seats for guests.

Draco rustled through a sheaf of parchments on the desk and finally unearthed a small, scrappy bit like someone's last minute shopping list.

He passed it to Harry, who frowned as he read over it.

"As loathe as I am to offer it," said Draco with a sneer and contemptuous once-over in Harry's direction, "lunch? You look as if you haven't had a decent meal since sixth year. I could have Addie arrange sandwiches and tea."

Hermione and Harry caught each other's glances while Ron only looked mournfully up at the ceiling. Eating regular meals, it turned out, was a habit, and one that they had lost during their year on the run. The past few weeks doing the understaffed, overworked Aurors' work hadn't helped matters.

Breakfast was hit or miss. They were usually too busy for lunch. They only had dinner when they weren't so exhausted they fell straight asleep after a hard day of work.

Harry saw it in Hermione's eyes that she didn't trust the offer. She would never eat anything produced in Malfoy Manor.

Poor Ron, Harry thought absently. He was no doubt daydreaming about puff pastries.

"No, thanks," said Harry, and he passed the scrap of parchment to Hermione. "That's Dolohov's contacts, then? The ones he has regular meetings with?"

"Yes, I believe so," said Draco. "It's not his handwriting, though. He wouldn't be so stupid as to write something like that down, anyway. It was probably his last partner, Watters-or-what-have-you. He'd have been tortured for not being able to keep up the information network in Dolohov's absence."

"These dates are coded," said Hermione. "But I think— yes, I'm certain— there's one this week in Knockturn Alley. Harry—"

"Where?" asked Harry.

"A place called Everest Wands," said Hermione. "I haven't heard of—"

"It's a shop for sex toys, Granger," said Draco, pinching the bridge of his nose. "A rather popular one."

Hermione clearly fought to keep her stern composure, but her cheeks tinged pink.

Ron suddenly looked very interested in the titles of the books on the shelves.

"Right, thanks for that, Malfoy," said Harry. "It's been fun."

He turned to leave, Ron and Hermione rushing to the door with him.

"Wait," said Draco, taking an aborted step after them.

Harry paused on the threshold and turned around.

"Is that it?" asked Draco. His gaze was almost feverish. "Are we even?"

Harry's eyebrows shot to his hairline. Ron and Hermione looked aghast and insulted.

"Even?" repeated Harry, testing the word as if he'd never heard it before.

He thought of Crabbe burning in his own Fiendfyre.

He thought of Dumbledore falling off the Astronomy Tower, the light already gone from his eyes, after Malfoy had disarmed him.

Snape, bleeding to death under his hands.

Fred, leaving George alone. Remus and Tonks still reaching for each other. Colin Creevey and his goddamn camera.

Hermione screaming above them, sobbing, her blood spilling onto the hardwood floors just a few dozen feet away.

Acid burned his veins. The fire in his chest was hotter than Crabbe's Fiendfyre.

"We'll never be _even_ , Malfoy," snarled Harry. "Just get that through your head right now."

He turned on his heel, and Ron and Hermione followed.

…

"Dolohov won't be an easy arrest, Harry," said Kingsley Shacklebolt. He had moved into Fudge-Scrimgeour-Thicknesse's office for the practical purpose of being locatable, but he had yet to move any of his personal items in. He had only been elected in an emergency session the previous week, after Harry had thrown his whole-hearted, extremely coveted support behind him. Harry suspected that was part of the reason Kingsley had offered him, Ron, and Hermione Auror positions even without going through their N.E.W.T.s.

Kingsley and Harry paced around the single desk like it was a dance, moving in one direction together before one of them changed directions and got close, only for the other to change direction, too, and keep the endless circle going the opposite way.

"And _Voldemort_ was easy?" asked Harry. It sounded different than it would have before the war. There was no teenage angst and bravado. It was dry, grim.

They both knew what it had cost.

"The latest from Avery's interrogation suggests the remaining Death Eaters have banded around Dolohov instead of Yaxley, as we originally thought," Kingsley continued, beginning the slow, ponderous pacing around the desk anew. "He may bring protection. Bodyguards. He may not even go himself. He could delegate."

"I don't care," said Harry fiercely. "If there's even a chance we can catch him, we have to take it. He could go underground any moment and we'd lose him forev—"

He broke off suddenly and looked away, blinking hard.

Kingsley gave him a look with those penetrating, sad eyes.

They paced, Harry trailing a finger along the desk to ground himself, Kingsley tucking his hands into his sleeves in a meditative pose.

"You didn't kill Remus, Harry," said Kingsley.

"No," Harry snapped. "Dolohov did."

"I only meant," said Kingsley, "it wasn't your fault. Not Remus, nor Tonks, nor any of the others. We all knew the risks, and we chose to stay and fight that day."

"I was there, sir," said Harry stiffly. "I remember what we fought for."

They'd fought for _him_. Remus and Tonks, even with their newborn baby Teddy at home… they'd come back to Hogwarts to fight for him. They'd refused to give him up when Voldemort had demanded it, and they'd _died_ for him. Fred, Colin Creevey, all the others— children, teachers, Order members, civilians— they'd all died for him.

Harry clenched his fist around the edge of the desk, halting their circle again.

He tried to breathe.

He tried to feel the solid wood beneath his fingers, not the warm rush of Snape's blood. He tried to smell the Ministry office, musty and damp, not the ash and stone debris from the falling castle. He tried to see his own hand, pale against the dark desk in the dimly lit office, not the flashes of red and green spell-light he saw every time he closed his eyes.

He was shaking. There was something wild and consuming in his chest, too big to fit in his half-starved body, and Harry struggled to fight it down.

Whatever that emotion was, he couldn't afford it. He couldn't let it take him over, not when Dolohov had killed Remus and gotten away. Not when Molly Weasley had had to kill Bellatrix, who had killed Sirius and Tonks and would have killed Ginny, because Harry had been so _damned useless_ he couldn't do it himself.

So many.

So many others had died for him.

He could spend the rest of his life hunting Death Eaters and Dark wizards, and it still wouldn't be enough.

He couldn't breathe.

He smelled smoke, felt warm blood on his hands. He heard screaming.

"An arrest of this magnitude will require a full team," said Kingsley, sounding far away and tinny. He didn't seem to notice that Harry was quietly hyperventilating across the desk. "You, Weasley, and Granger are impressive, but you will require at least two more experienced Aurors. I'll give you Herrod and Schrodinger."

Harry's mind scrambled, grasping for a hold on the real world, on Kingsley's voice and what those words meant.

It took a moment. He gripped the desk tighter.

"Fine," said Harry, pretending his voice wasn't trembling. "As long as we get him."

…

They had less than forty-eight hours to come up with a plan.

With Hermione's sharp eye for detail, Ron's unconventional but realistic wisdom, Harry's grim determination, and the Aurors' experience, they laid their trap.

Harry and Hermione kept watch from an abandoned storefront just across the street from Everest Wands' backdoor.

It was dark, and they didn't dare light their wands for fear of giving away their surveillance.

"I'll be taking N.E.W.T.s in Transfiguration, Potions, Charms, Arithmancy, Herbology, and Ancient Runes," Hermione whispered. "I think I'm rather done with Defense. What about you?"

"I've already told you," said Harry, just as quietly. He strained his eyes to keep sight on the faint shadows within Everest Wands. "I can't go back. Kingsley already said we're guaranteed a position in Magical Law Enforcement, and… and Hogwarts just won't be the same. You know? Not after… not after this. I _can't_."

He forced the flashbacks away, back in that place with the ferocious, all-devouring blackhole somewhere deep in his chest.

Hermione sighed softly. She peeked again around the corner of her window and catalogued the miniscule changes. No sign of Dolohov.

"I know," she said. "Ron won't go back either. But I know I won't be alone. There will be Ginny, and Luna…."

Harry's chest constricted.

He hated talking about the future. He hated the idea of splitting up the three of them. They had been through so much together. They had counted on one another to stay alive, to stay sane, to _be there_.

But, more than that, he hated the idea of going back to a Hogwarts where Dumbledore had fallen to his death from a beautiful, remote tower, where Snape had bled out in a dusty shack, where Remus and Tonks and Fred and _all the others_ had laid motionless on the floor of the Great Hall— where the students would return to eat _breakfast_ and celebrate Halloween, and be Sorted, and—

" _Breathe_ , Harry," said Hermione, suddenly very close, and they were on the ground, and— "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have pushed. I know it's too soon. I'm sorry. Just breathe, Harry, just breathe. We're alright. It'll be alright."

Harry gasped like a man drowning.

" _Breathe_ ," Hermione repeated, rubbing his arm.

He latched onto the physical contact, onto the sound of her voice as she spoke soft encouragements.

And then he was out of Hogwarts, the battlefield, and in a dark, abandoned shop in Knockturn Alley.

He breathed shakily and, when the worst of the trembling subsided, nodded at Hermione.

She gave him a faint smile. With one last squeeze on his arm, she took a step back.

Harry got to his feet. His muscles, his _bones_ , felt weak and jello-y.

He coughed. "Sorry."

"It's alright," said Hermione. She watched him, worrying her bottom lip, and Harry saw the struggle behind her eyes. Eventually, she sighed and said, "You can't keep going like this, Harry. Don't you think you should take a break before joining the MLE? Take some time for yourself?"

"I'm _fine_ ," said Harry curtly. "I can't take a break. There's too much work to do."

"Harry…"

"What was that?"

They both straightened and stared hard out the window.

There were three wizards in hooded cloaks making their way furtively toward the backdoor of Everest Wands.

Two of the three meandered to a stop on the sidewalk, apparently engaged in a quiet conversation, while the third went ahead to the shop door. He knocked.

"Can you tell who it is?" asked Hermione, clutching her wand.

Harry squinted.

The figures were too far away to judge for sure. It was too dark to see anything other than their general builds, which placed them as adult men, by their tall, burly silhouettes.

"I don't—" Harry began, shaking his head.

The proprietor, a short man with a bushy mustache, opened the door, allowing the shop light to illuminate the man on the step.

" _That's him!_ " said Harry.

There was no mistaking that long, pale face, so often twisted in rage or contempt. Here was the man who had cursed Hermione in their fifth year in the battle at the Department of Mysteries, who would have killed her if she had not _Silencio'_ d him earlier in the duel. Here was the man who had come after them in the Tottenham Court Road café after Bill and Fluer's wedding, who would have taken them out before they even got their feet under them in the new warring world.

He had tried to kill Sirius in the Department of Mysteries.

He had killed Molly's brothers, Gideon and Fabian Prewett, in the first war.

He had tortured and killed Muggles and Muggleborns in both wars with glee.

He had _killed Remus_.

Harry shot out the door.

"Oh— _bother_ —" he heard Hermione say, startled, behind him. She swished her wand to signal Ron and the Aurors, and then her pounding footsteps joined his on the dark street.

Harry _Stupefy_ 'd the first Death Eater standing watch before he could even look up at the sudden commotion. Then he and the second Death Eater were dueling with a vengeance.

He saw Hermione race past him out of the corner of his eye, straight for Dolohov, who had broken off mid-sentence with the proprietor when Harry attacked.

" _Stupefy!_ " said Hermione.

Dolohov dodged, quick as a viper. He grinned, showing two full rows of teeth. He looked deranged— and delighted.

"The Mudblood and the Chosen One," he said, over the sound of the streetlamp beside him exploding from one of Harry's missed spells. "My lucky day."

He whipped his wand at Hermione, and then they were dueling madly, like Sirius and Bellatrix at the Department of Mysteries.

 _Fuck_ , Harry thought, trying his damnedest to put Nott Senior down fast so he could help Hermione. But the old man was as stubborn— and as skilled— as Mad-Eye Moody. Whatever he lacked in youth, he made up for with experience. His and Harry's wands were blurs as they tried to annihilate one another.

Where were Ron and the Aurors?

With a wrench of his wand and a nonverbal _Expelliarmus!_ Harry snatched Nott's wand out of the air. A split second later, he'd followed it up with a _Stupefy_.

Nott hit the ground. There was a purple flare of fire, and then so did Hermione.

"NO!" shouted Harry, darting to Hermione's side even as Dolohov escaped into the shop.

Harry dropped to the ground and grabbed Hermione by the shoulders. He held her against him and felt frantically for a pulse.

Her face was turning pale. Her lips were a bloodless blue.

He couldn't find a pulse.

He shook her. "Come on, Hermione! Don't do this! What do I do? _What do I do?_ _Ennervate!_ "

Nothing.

She wasn't breathing. Her chest was still, eyes closed, her lips parted slightly in surprise.

" _Ennervate!_ " said Harry again. His heart pounded violently against his ribcage, so hard he was afraid it would jump out. Blood rushed in his ears like a waterfall. " _Ennervate! ENNERVATE!_ "

Hermione didn't move.

She was limp against his chest.

Harry stared down at her surprised face. Wildly, his mind flew back to their second year when she'd been petrified.

 _Mandrake root!_ He thought, delirious.

That huge, hollow burning in his chest grew.

 _No_ , he reminded himself. _No mandrake root. She's not petrified._

He would have clawed his way out of his own skin in that moment, if it would get him away from that horrible, devouring _pit_ building and building inside his chest. It was too much— there was no more room for it— he couldn't keep pushing it down— he couldn't keep _going_ —

Shattering glass and bright flashes of light came from the front of the shop.

Harry heard Ron's angry voice and Dolohov's laugh.

The broken pieces of his scattered mind snapped back into place.

 _Ron_.

Laying Hermione down in the dirt felt like ripping out a piece of his own soul and leaving it behind. But he had to do it. She would understand— for Ron, she would understand. He settled her back as gently as he could, placed her fallen wand in her hand against her chest, and then left her alone in the warm, dark night.

As soon as he stepped into the shop, he came face-to-face with a startled Rookwood and promptly blasted him through a wall with a _Reducto_.

Harry stormed through the hole in the wall into the main shop and cast a shield as a flurry of lights headed straight for him.

"Ron!" he shouted, unable to see through the flares of light against his shield. He held strong, though each hit started feeling more and more like a punch to the gut instead of a flash off a shield. He squinted hard, knuckles white around his wand. "RON!"

"Harry—" came Ron's voice several yards away, out of breath. He was moving as he continued, "—Malfoy tricked us! _Reducto! Protego!_ This wasn't a meeting with a— _Impedimenta!_ — an informant! This is a fucking Death Eater meeting! Run!"

They tried.

But their own trap worked against them.

The Aurors had placed Anti-Apparition wards around the block so that Dolohov wouldn't be able to escape and, with Hermione's help, they'd made them one-way, so that wizards could still Apparate in but not out. They hadn't wanted to cut Dolohov off before he arrived, nor had they wanted to prevent their own backup arriving if they needed it.

But once someone was in the bubble, they were trapped.

"Backup—" Harry tried, as he managed to duck behind a shelf and give his shield a rest.

It didn't last long. Within two seconds, he was in a full-out duel with Rabastan-Fucking-Lestrange.

"Can't get to the coin—" Ron managed, diving under the checkout counter even as the marble countertop exploded over his head. "Can you—? _Stupefy!_ "

Hermione had given them coins charmed like she had done in their fifth year for Dumbledore's Army meetings. Dawlins, the erstwhile Head Auror, was supposed to be watching the other coin back at the headquarters.

Harry managed to disarm Rabastan and stun him. He dug furiously in his robes for the hidden inside pocket where he'd stowed the coin.

Then another Death Eater was on him, and he couldn't duel and rummage in his robes at the same time.

It was a nasty, drawn-out fight.

Herrod and Schrodinger were killed in the first few minutes. Then the Death Eaters formed a circle around Harry and Ron, blocking the exits and keeping them constantly deflecting hexes from all sides, even as Harry and Ron dueled other Death Eaters one-on-one inside the circle.

They fought well together, Harry and Ron. They moved in sync from years of knowing each other, from being able to predict what the other would do without the need for words, even if they didn't know specifics. They didn't need to know specifics. They just needed to know: _That look in his eye means something's about to catch fire; that set to his mouth means he's about to do something stupid and needs backup; those squared shoulders and feet mean he's about to cast something powerful, be ready to duck_ —

It was like the Battle of Hogwarts all over again, though.

It came down to luck.

They couldn't see every angle at once, couldn't fight so many opponents with only each other for help.

They could only keep up a constant barrage of spells, hexes, jinxes, and charms for so long before they simply got exhausted.

The injuries accumulated. A gash across the face. An arrow of fire through one shoulder. A stinging hex in the eye, a Jelly Legs curse to one leg, shrapnel striking like bullets—

Harry was dueling Dolohov when Ron got hit with a _Stupefy_.

"Ron!" Harry shouted, whirling to protect him before another Killing Curse could fly. He stood over his friend, breathing hard and trembling with exertion, but his wand was up and ready.

Dolohov grinned that manic grin. He held up a hand and, at once, the Death Eaters stopped casting spells and jeering.

Harry braced himself, watching Dolohov unblinkingly. He thought about reaching for the enchanted coin, but Dolohov was too fast. He'd never get his fingers close enough to brush it before Dolohov killed both him and Ron.

"I'll tell you what," said Dolohov in his raspy, amused voice. "My master was kind enough to offer you a deal in the end, wasn't he? And you were stupid enough to take it. I think I'll offer you the same. Surrender yourself, Harry Potter, and we'll let your little blood-traitor friend live. What do you say?"

 _What did he say?_ Harry thought, confusion and fear writhing in his belly. Voldemort offered that deal and _died_. Voldemort offered that deal and _Harry_ died.

His sacrifice, made from love, would ensure the Death Eaters upheld their end of the bargain, though. They wouldn't be able to kill Ron, just as the defenders of Hogwarts had been protected from Voldemort after Harry's death.

His death.

It had only been a month ago.

And here… his only choice was to die again. So soon.

He thought of Hermione and swallowed hard.

His parents. Sirius. Remus. _Hermione_.

He had come back to end the war, but he was done. He'd finally get to see his family again.

He lowered his wand.

Dolohov grinned and motioned two Death Eaters forward.

They grabbed Harry around the upper arms, holding him in place. One of them took his wand.

"What— what are you doing?" demanded Harry, struggling, as Dolohov turned away and surveyed the wreckage of the shop.

Dolohov glanced back at him and laughed. So did the remaining Death Eaters.

" _MacNair_ was the executioner, boy, not me," said Dolohov, with an amused, vicious glint in his gray eyes. "Me? I'm the _torturer_. Now, I think I saw some handcuffs in here before we blew the place to bits…."

"You're not— you're not going to kill me?"

Dolohov grinned, quick and sharp like unsheathing a knife. "No, no, boy," he said softly, tasting the words like fine chocolates. "I'm going to make you _wish_ you were dead. I'm going to make it so that the Wizarding World never turns to you again. You're going to spend the rest of your life regretting the first time you ever heard Lord Voldemort's name."

Fear like ice water poured down Harry's spine.

…

Draco Malfoy didn't know why he was pacing restlessly. Since the Battle of Hogwarts, he'd spent most of his time reading in the sunroom, snacking on biscuits from Addie, and discussing his upcoming trial with his solicitor.

Even when they spoke of his and his parents' trial, he didn't get restless. There was a vague sort of resignation there, that what would be would be. He would plead his case, and if he was sentenced to Azkaban, then he was sentenced to Azkaban. He was lucky enough that he was one of the few even getting a hearing, and the only reason the Malfoys stood a chance of freedom was that Harry Bloody Potter had vouched for their change of sides near the end.

Draco sneered automatically at the thought of Potter and turned another sharp about-face in his pacing.

Harry Bloody Potter. Was that why he was restless?

Tonight was the night Dolohov was set to meet with his contact at Everest Wands. (Draco wasn't stupid. He had decoded the parchment before surrendering it to _Granger_.) No doubt, Harry would be hiding in the bushes outside the stockroom window, eavesdropping like the diligent goody-two-shoes he was. The new Minister Shacklebolt would have a whole platoon guarding the vaunted Boy Who Lived, Boy Who Won, _Savior_ , whatever they were calling the prat now.

He wouldn't be in any danger, and he'd likely take all the credit afterwards if they caught that sadistic maniac Dolohov.

Draco shivered. He glanced out his window at the clear summer night and drew his robes tighter around himself. He didn't know why he suddenly felt cold all over if it wasn't the weather.

Unless it was Dolohov.

Antonin Dolohov had reminded Draco of his aunt Bellatrix, the few times they had all met. They were wrong in the head, and they took a truly perverse glee in mutilating others. But Aunt Bella had always seemed a bit frantic, while Dolohov was more easygoing. Aunt Bella, even while torturing the latest helpless Muggleborn to stumble into her lair, always wanted to be by the Dark Lord's side. She seemed to have a mental timetable always counting down, things to check off a list as quickly as possible before she could get back to groveling at _his_ feet. Co-dependent, that one, Draco thought with dry, dark amusement.

Dolohov was patient. He took his time. He took pleasure in doing his work thoroughly.

He scared Draco in a way Aunt Bella could never quite manage.

Of course, he was the one Harry Bloody Potter would choose to obsess over next. He could never take a break from being the big bloody hero, could he?

Draco paced.

It was late. Past dinner. But it was also a lovely summer night, and surely the shops in Diagon Alley were still open? He could go for a walk, and if he happened to meander into Knockturn Alley, well…

He could congratulate Potter on apprehending Dolohov, Draco thought, summoning Addie to fetch his good cloak. Because of course Potter would succeed, with the whole Auror department babysitting him. And Draco needed to stay in Potter's good graces, at least until the trial was over. If he could get Potter to testify in front of the Wizengamot on his behalf, his case was as good as won.

He Apparated to Diagon Alley.

He gave up the pretense of strolling through the shops very quickly and let his feet take him straight to Knockturn Alley.

On the street harboring Everest Wands, the lights were out. The streetlamps as well as the lights inside the various shops. Nobody roamed the street. Nobody was in sight. It looked like the shops were all closed, but Knockturn Alley _never_ closed, not like Diagon Alley. They did some of their best, shadiest business in the dark of night.

Draco frowned and, after a moment, pulled out his wand. He approached Everest Wands slowly, at an angle out of direct view of the front windows. Hesitantly, he weaved his wand around himself in a disillusionment charm. Maybe the Aurors had closed the street after the arrest? But it didn't hurt to be cautious.

That idea fled within the next few steps.

This was no crime scene— at least, not yet.

He came upon two bodies just outside the front door, both supporters of the Dark Lord, though they had never risen to Death Eater status to Draco's knowledge.

Draco swallowed. He held his wand high and close to his chest.

He whispered a charm to open the door silently, just a crack, and slipped through.

The destruction was horrific. Bodies lay strewn about the floor amidst broken shelves, exploded walls, and disintegrated merchandise. It smelled of burnt flesh and blood.

He couldn't tell which bodies were stunned and which were dead. He recognized most as Death Eaters, but there were a couple he didn't know at all.

It looked deserted, but he heard voices coming from a room in the back.

He edged in that direction, scarcely daring to breathe.

He didn't even have to open a door to see into the back room, because there was already a hole in the wall the size of his mother's dress robes closet.

The sight beyond made him want to vomit.

There was Harry, wholly naked and bleeding from more wounds than Draco could count, hunched over the unconscious— or dead— body of Ron Weasley. Potter's eyes were bloodshot, his cheeks shiny with tears, and his whole body curled around Ron as if he could shield him with that alone. He was clutching Ron in both hands. His wand was nowhere in sight.

Dolohov was standing with his wand pointed directly at Harry's face. Instead of his usual sadistic amusement, he looked furious.

Harry stared back defiantly, even with that haunted look in his eyes as if his entire world had shattered around him.

Where were the Aurors? Was it their bodies in the front room? And where was Granger? Draco knew she was the real force to be reckoned with among the Golden Trio. Surely, they hadn't gone after _Dolohov_ without her?

There were other Death Eaters in the small supply room, at least six that Draco could see. And— what in Merlin's name?— chains and handcuffs, covered in blood, lying on a table in the center. A table just behind Harry. Behind Harry, whose bare wrists and ankles were bathed in scarlet and gore.

Fucking hell.

Draco, nauseated, missed what Dolohov said, but he heard Harry clearly. Harry spoke in a way Draco had never heard before, in a tone stern and unyielding as the universe itself. Power seemed to radiate from him like he was the eye of a storm, wild, barely-leashed violence, _chaos_.

" _You will never kill another living soul, Dolohov!_ "

It was a bold statement coming from an unarmed teenager, except for the throng of powerful, _cold_ magic permeating every molecule in the room.

Dolohov sneered, wrath and madness warring for dominance on his face.

He raised his wand.

Draco knew what spell he was going to utter before he even opened his mouth. He didn't think, didn't pause to consider what he was doing.

Draco threw himself through the hole in the wall and dove to intercept the Killing Curse aimed at Harry.

…

TBC...


	2. Death can sneak up

" _Death's got an Invisibility Cloak?" Harry interrupted again._

_"So he can sneak up on people," said Ron. "Sometimes he gets bored of running at them, flapping his arms and shrieking..."_

― J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

* * *

**Chapter 2: Death can sneak up**

Harry didn't know what happened next.

Dolohov had gone back on his word, and everything— that screaming, endless hollow in his chest— had exploded.

He didn't know where the strength came from— he hurt in ways he had never known he could hurt— and he definitely didn't know where the power came from.

 _"You will never kill another living soul, Dolohov!"_ he heard himself yell.

He registered Dolohov's wand in his face, intent obvious in the dark, lunatic look in his eyes, and something in Harry broke. It was like a dam giving out all at once, the power rushing forward in a tidal wave of soul-crushing, all-consuming darkness.

Harry screamed as it tore through him.

Green light filled his vision even as something collided with him, throwing him back and ripping Ron's body out of his arms. He was aware of grabbing it on instinct, feeling warm skin under his hand, and then something wrenched in his gut, and he screamed again.

The green light gave way to blackness.

…

His awareness came back slowly, in stages.

First, he understood he was lying on something hard. Then he understood he had a body, and, as soon as he remembered that, his body _hurt_.

Dying hadn't hurt last time.

He curled in on himself, groaning in pain. He felt the skin of his arms against the bare skin of his chest.

Yes, he had been naked last time he had died, too, he recalled.

_"What?"_

Harry's eyes sprung open.

Draco Malfoy was on the cobbled pavement of a street in Knockturn Alley beside him. _He_ wasn't naked.

"Why would I be _naked?_ "

"You're not Dumbledore," said Harry stupidly, and then he realized he was speaking aloud.

"Why would I be _Dumbledore?_ " Malfoy asked, sounding the most baffled yet.

Harry struggled to sit up despite his injuries, keeping his lips tightly pressed against more whimpers of pain. That accomplished, he wrapped his arms around himself, uncomfortably vulnerable next to a fully clothed Draco Malfoy. He looked around.

"This isn't King's Cross Station," Harry said thoughtfully.

"Ah," said Draco, and his look of confusion cleared. He nodded to himself once, decisive, and said, "You've gone mad."

Harry didn't appreciate the Malfoy inside his head, but it was _his_ head, so he supposed it was his own fault. As Dumbledore would have said, it was his party. Resigned, he told him, "I must have, if you're here instead of Dumbledore."

"It isn't your fault," Malfoy said magnanimously. "Many stronger wizards than you have lost their minds after being— ah— _tortured_."

Malfoy's eyes flicked to Harry's body as if against his will. He cleared his throat abruptly and looked away, swallowing hard. His face, already pale, had a greenish tint. He clasped his hands as if to keep from fidgeting.

"Well, then, if you've got all the answers, where are we?" asked Harry. He didn't want to stand up to get a better look around, therein also giving Malfoy a better view of his ass. He wondered why robes hadn't appeared for him at his first thought, as they had the previous time.

"Knockturn Alley," said Malfoy.

"Yes, I see that," snapped Harry. "I meant: Why Knockturn Alley?"

"Then why didn't you ask that instead?" Malfoy snapped back.

Harry sacrificed one of the hands covering himself to pinch the bridge of his nose. His glasses, he noticed, were gone again.

Malfoy was a construction of his mind, Harry reminded himself. It was no use arguing with him.

"Last time," Harry mused, "it was King's Cross Station. I think it was symbolic— a junction between two places, a means of transportation to move on or go back. Why a random street in _Knockturn Alley_ this time?"

Malfoy eyed him again, and now it was wary.

"What do you mean 'last time?'" he asked slowly.

"Last time I _died_ , obviously."

Malfoy shot to his feet and stumbled back as if Harry had electrocuted him. His expression was wild.

"Died? We're not dead! Why would you say—? I would _know_ if—"

"It is weird you're here," Harry conceded. "Dumbledore had already died when he met me at the crossroads. I figured it was his spirit or something, since he wasn't a ghost. But last I saw, you were alive and— well, not _well_ — but _alive_."

"I'm perfectly well, thank you!" Draco said, the wild look not leaving his eyes. He cast about frantically, mouth working silently as he apparently tried to find an argument against Harry's logic.

Harry waited patiently. Dumbledore had been much more comforting and informative, but perhaps he was busy this time. Or maybe 'his party' wasn't cooperating this time, because it wouldn't give him robes, either.

Either way, he supposed his next step was to figure out how to move on so he could see his friends and family in the afterlife. He had done his job in life. He no longer had obligations tying him to the living, so there was no conflict in his mind about going back.

He was ready to move on. He was done.

"This _isn't_ Knockturn Alley," said Draco, after Harry had almost forgotten he was present. He was staring hard at the street sign on the corner and then along the stretch of shops around them.

"What? You _just said_ —"

"I know what I said! And it _is_ Knockturn Alley—"

"Oh, for— I know Dumbledore was cryptic, but _you._ You can't have it both ways, Malfoy. That's just—"

"That's the corner of Gimmick Street and MacDungeon," Draco interrupted, pointing to the signs.

Harry couldn't read it without his glasses.

Odd. Last time, in King's Cross, he hadn't _needed_ his glasses.

"We were just on Gimmick Street at Everest Wands in Knockturn Alley," continued Draco forcefully, rushing to get the words out before Harry could argue. "There's Tabbard's Pawn, across the street, like it should be, but Little Snek's Rare Pets isn't beside it. It's a grubby patch of grass, like Little Snek's never existed. And we're standing in the exact place Everest Wands should be, but there's just that grimy old shed attached to the lawyers' office over there. And the lawyers' names should be Hildebrandt and Kosh, but it's Chattem and Sons. It _is_ Knockturn Alley. It's just… wrong."

Harry catalogued the changes. Honestly, he should have noticed the differences immediately given how much time he, Ron, Hermione, and the Aurors had spent studying the street for their surveillance. But didn't they have bigger problems to worry about? Who cared if his imaginary Knockturn Alley wasn't perfect? They needed to figure out how to get out, move on.

He was going to have to stand up and start walking, he realized with dread. Naked. In front of Draco Malfoy.

"You're just a figment of my imagination," Harry told Draco, bracing himself. "Unless, of course, you died at the exact same time as me, and we're both here at the same time… which might explain Knockturn Alley, at least, but is also highly unlikely…."

"I'm not a figment of your imagination!" Draco howled, throwing his hands in the air. "Whatever else you're hallucinating, _I'm real!_ "

Harry stood and let his hands fall to his sides.

Draco stared, flushed beet red to the roots of his platinum hair, and whirled around to face the opposite direction.

"Alright, which direction, do you think?" Harry asked, unperturbed. His energy was better spent wondering how long his legs would hold him when he felt so horribly weak.

"W-what?"

"We're dead. We have to move on. Which direction is the afterlife? I'd hate to accidentally go back and end up a Hogwarts ghost, wouldn't you?"

"We're not— wait. What was that?"

A sound of scuffling caught Harry's attention, too, and he and Malfoy shared a look of confusion before Malfoy realized he was, again, staring at a naked Harry Potter. He spun back around and fiddled with the clasp of his travelling cloak.

"Let's go see," said Harry, starting in the direction of the noise.

"Wait! Here, at least put this on." Draco pulled his cloak off without as much flourish as he once would have and held it out to Harry, looking determinedly in the opposite direction. His hands shook.

Harry took it and wrapped it around himself with a vague sense of amusement and befuddlement. It was warm from Malfoy's body heat, heavy with the weight of expensive fabric, and lined with something surprising soft. He pulled it a little tighter, appreciative. "Thanks, Fake-Malfoy. Come on."

He took off at a trot toward the sounds of a fight in a nearby alley.

Behind him, he thought he heard Malfoy mutter something about idiotic Gryffindors before he started after him.

They reached the mouth of a cramped, spindly alleyway and skidded to a halt.

Three men— boys, really, hardly older than Harry and Malfoy— were taking turns casting spells on the sobbing, begging form of a school-aged girl. She was on the ground, curled up, holding her arms over her head as if to shield it from the magical blows. There were bright crimson lesions covering her exposed hands and wrists. Bloodied slashes like knife-strikes riddled her Muggle jumper and blouse. Even as they watched, one of the boys cast a curse that struck her in the face, and they heard the bones of her nose _crunch_ and blood gushed out.

Harry felt as if he were the one who had been hit. He staggered a step back, the pain of his own injuries rushing to the forefront of his attention, the smell of blood overwhelming — Dolohov's raspy, delighted laugh as Harry screamed for the hundredth time— the Death Eaters hooting and whistling as Dolohov systematically destroyed his clothes, leaving him naked and utterly defenseless— panic and _shame_ as Ron woke from the Stupefy and watched—

Harry couldn't breathe.

 _"You cannot help,"_ his addled mind remembered Dumbledore saying of the shriveled, wailing baby under a bench at King's Cross Station. Was this another person's soul being tormented with which he wasn't supposed to interfere? Was this a representation of _his_ soul?

Draco looked as repulsed by the scene as Harry.

The three boys hadn't noticed them yet. They could still leave and continue on their journey to the afterlife.

Harry struggled. He could still taste blood in his mouth, feel his own throat tearing from his screams. He couldn't _breathe_.

He didn't know the girl, could barely see her face between all the blood and her shielding arms, but she seemed to be a Muggle or Muggleborn by the way she dressed.

The three boys… Harry's eyes darted to their faces, and he felt the already wobbly ground rip itself from under his feet entirely.

The three boys looked _so much_ like Dolohov, Rodolphus, and Rabastan, but they were _young_.

They didn't— those Death Eaters hadn't had children, had they? They would have been in the years surrounding Harry at Hogwarts, and he would have recognized them—

And then Harry saw the beginnings of purple fire starting from the tip of Dolohov's wand, and he reacted. His mind went clear and blank and smooth.

The Elder Wand slapped into his outstretched palm as if it had been thrown by a giant invisible pitcher. Harry flicked it at Dolohov and disarmed him before that terrible curse could fully form. He snatched Dolohov's wand out of the air in his other hand and stood in the mouth of the alleyway, radiating cold, shrieking fury.

Malfoy took a step back, his wide eyes boring into the side of Harry's skull.

Dolohov and the Lestranges looked up, their expressions confounded.

Upon seeing Harry, the Lestranges' faces twisted into taunting sneers, but Dolohov's went slack and pale.

"Get lost," said Harry, so quietly he doubted anyone could hear him, but the three nevertheless straightened indignantly, "or I will kill you where you stand."

Their offense at his audacity vanished. Instead, Rodolphus and Rabastan gave each other stunned, halfway frightened looks. If they had expected a fight, they certainly hadn't expected him to tell them calmly and implacably he would kill them in cold blood.

They looked to Dolohov, who was staring at Harry as if someone had just walked over his grave and didn't respond to their urgent whispers if he knew him.

"Fine," said Rodolphus curtly, apparently taking the lead since Dolohov had cracked. "Give Dolohov back his wand, and we'll go."

"No," said Harry. He didn't offer anything else.

"Why, you little scumbag," said Rodolphus, taking a few threatening steps forward and raising his wand. "Do you know who it is you're talking to?"

Suddenly, Rodolphus's wand flew from his grasp and into the waiting hand of Draco Malfoy. Rabastan's followed suit a split second later.

"Do _you_?" Malfoy sneered in response.

"Why, you—!" the Lestrange brothers began red with fury, but Dolohov abruptly jerked back to himself and grabbed the backs of their cloaks.

"Enough!" said Dolohov. "We need to leave, now!"

"What? And let this scrawny Potter-looking runt get away with—?"

Dolohov didn't let the man finish. He threw himself backward, Apparating, and took Rodolphus and Rabastan with him.

Silence fell in their wake, broken only by the teenaged girl's muffled sobbing.

"What," said Malfoy, "in the name of Salazar's saggy left ball, is going on?"

"Not now," muttered Harry, stashing both the Elder wand and Dolohov's in his borrowed cloak. He moved to the girl and knelt next to her. "Hey, are you alright?"

He placed his hand on her shoulder, and she flinched violently, crying out.

Harry understood.

He took a few steps back, put his hands in plain view hanging harmlessly, wandless, and said, "It's okay. They're gone now. You're safe. My name's Harry. What's yours?"

The girl sniffled, gave one last miserable whimper, and slowly lowered her arms. She looked at Harry with dark, bloodshot eyes, dark hair and lashes, with a broken nose and unknown number of freely bleeding wounds.

Like peas in a pod, Harry thought sardonically, feeling his own ribs ache in sympathy.

"Gertrude McKinnon," said the girl through her stuffy, broken nose. "I'm— I'm Gertrude McKinnon."

The name niggled at the back of Harry's brain, but they had more pressing matters at hand.

"What happened, Gertrude?" he asked. "Do you know where you are and why you're here?"

"Oh, not this again," muttered Malfoy behind him, sounding aggrieved, but Harry ignored him.

Gertrude slowly, painstakingly unwrapped herself from her ball. She struggled to sit up, but Harry battled his inner hero and didn't help her. He knew she would be better off without him rushing at her, even if he knew his only intention was to help.

She managed it, leaning exhausted against the brick wall behind her.

"I was w-with my friends," she said tremulously. "We were shopping for our school things for next week. I thought I saw… well, someone I knew. I followed him, but then they… they ambushed me. Dragged me here. They…."

Her voice caught, and she trailed off. Tears spilled silently down her cheeks.

"It's because I'm a Muggleborn," she finally continued, with a proud, stubborn tilt to her chin that reminded Harry achingly of Hermione. "I know who they were. They were You-Know-Who's supporters. Death Eaters. I just never thought… in Diagon Alley…."

"You go to Hogwarts?" Harry asked, frowning. The name McKinnon tickled at his recollection again.

"Yes," said Gertrude. "Gryffindor. My sister and I both. We'll be in seventh year."

Harry reeled back. That would make her Ginny's classmate, but he would _know_ her.

"Potter," said Malfoy sharply. When Harry glanced up, he motioned with his head to the mouth of the alleyway and said, "A word, if you please."

 _She needs medical attention_ , Harry wanted to say, but no, they were already dead. What use would first aid be?

The Elder Wand was a heavy weight in his borrowed cloak. He wondered why it had appeared, unless…. Its power would die with Harry if he died undefeated. Was it dead, too? Had followed him into the afterlife?

But he so clearly remembered Dolohov aiming the Killing Curse at him. Harry _had_ been defeated. Hadn't he?

Thoughts aswirl, Harry arduously made his way back to his feet. His ribs were broken. He was cut, burnt, and bruised. Why hadn't his injuries faded in death?

He walked with Malfoy off to the side, where Gertrude wouldn't hear them.

"Gertrude McKinnon died," said Malfoy without preamble. He had that feverous look again, like he had when he'd asked Harry if they were even.

"Yes, obviously," said Harry. "We're _all_ dead."

" _No_ ," said Malfoy, and he stepped into Harry's personal space to press his point.

The breath caught in Harry's throat, and he took an involuntary step back— Dolohov's laugh, raising his wand— _pain_ …

Malfoy continued, unaware, "Marlene McKinnon was one of the original members of the Order of the Phoenix back in the Dark Lord's _first_ reign. Gertrude died back in the seventies, while she was still a Hogwarts student, and then You-Know-Who wiped out her sister's entire family a few years later. The _seventies_ , Potter. This isn't right."

"What are you saying?" Harry asked, breathing raggedly as he tried to push his demons away.

"I don't think we're dead," said Malfoy. "I think… I think we've somehow traveled back in time. We're in the past. That's why Dolohov and the others are so young. That's why Gimmick Alley is so different. The shops we know haven't been built yet, or they're owned by different people. It's the only logical explanation."

"Sirius and Remus were younger," said Harry. "After they died, I mean. When I saw them in the forest."

Malfoy stared at him, mouth agape, and then resolutely shook his head. "Mad."

"I'm not mad!"

"And I'm not dead!"

"Then why are you _here?_ It's certainly not to guide me to the other side!"

"I jumped in front of—" Malfoy broke off suddenly and frowned, looking away. He repeated, more to himself than Harry, "I'm not dead. This isn't right."

"And _you_ would know all about what's right," Harry snarled, turning his back on Malfoy. He made his way back to Gertrude.

"I need… I need a healer," said Gertrude, when Harry knelt next to her again. Her breathing was labored. "Lestrange— Rodolphus— used some kind of curse…."

Harry knew it would do no good. Perhaps Gertrude had died more than twenty years ago, and perhaps this was her version of Hell. He doubted a healer could help. Nevertheless, he looked around and said,

"We can Floo to St. Mungo's, I suppose. One of these shops ought to have—"

"Hogwarts," said Gertrude firmly, and then she winced, hand gripping her ribs. "I don't… I'd feel safer at Hogwarts."

"Fine," said Harry tightly. "Why not. The Headmaster's office has a Floo."

He gestured to see if he could help her up, and she gave a reluctant nod.

They struggled back to their feet together.

"Tabbard's Pawn," said Malfoy as they hobbled toward him, a pair of cripples too proud to lean on anyone but each other. Harry could practically see the snarky comment about Gryffindors swimming behind his eyes, but at least he kept it to himself. "They'll be easier to bribe into silence than the lawyers."

…

Draco didn't know whether to be triumphant or terrified when his prediction proved correct.

On the other side of the Floo, they came face to face with a bemused Albus Dumbledore. He still had auburn peppered in his hair, and the silver was not as pale as they had known it.

He stared into the face of the man he had been sentenced to kill scarcely two years ago, and the bottom of his stomach dropped out.

"Miss McKinnon," said Dumbledore, addressing his only known student first. He rose from behind his desk with a furrow of concern upon his brow. "What has happened?"

"Death Eaters," said Potter, as if he and Dumbledore had only spoken an hour ago instead of a year. "They attacked her at Diagon Alley. She asked for Madam Pomfrey instead of St. Mungo's."

"I'll send for her at once," said Dumbledore and, true to his word, he murmured something to his phoenix. The bird took off through the open window. Then he knelt in front of McKinnon and, said, regretfully, "I would help you myself, my dear, except I seem to have misplaced my wand recently."

Potter dug in his pockets with the hand not supporting McKinnon and produced a wand Draco found vaguely familiar. He held it out to Dumbledore silently.

Dumbledore blinked once. Slowly, as if in a dream, he took the wand and looked it over, that glazed expression still on his face. Then his eyes sharpened, and he examined Potter meticulously.

"Thank you," he said. Without further ado, he started waving his wand and muttering enchantments over McKinnon.

Feeling uncomfortably like an outsider, Draco edged off to the side and watched as Dumbledore performed first aid and Potter supported McKinnon, though he looked as if he needed the treatment just as badly. Potter's face was unnaturally pale and gray, and Draco could see the way his muscles trembled even under the heavy cloak.

Ridiculous, proud, stubborn Gryffindors. It was no wonder McKinnon had gotten herself killed, a Mudblood as cocky as her.

Draco glanced away, frowning, and crossed his arms. He didn't know if he was annoyed at McKinnon or himself for that last thought.

After an interminable amount of time, Madam Pomfrey burst into the office, her wand already up.

"I heard you had— oh!" she said and set upon McKinnon like a wolf on a fresh carcass.

Together, she and Dumbledore levitated McKinnon to the infirmary while keeping up a steady stream of healing spells.

Draco and Potter trailed behind.

Once inside the infirmary, McKinnon safely under Madam Pomfrey's care, Dumbledore turned to the boys.

"Thank you for your kind assistance, Misters…?"

Potter looked at Dumbledore as if the headmaster had told a joke he didn't find particularly amusing.

"What do you mean?" asked Potter. His voice was weak and hoarse, as it had been since they had woken up in the past. It sounded, Draco thought with a churning stomach, as if he had recently screamed his throat bloody.

"It's a long story, Headmaster," said Draco almost as weakly.

"Perhaps we ought to return to my office," suggested Dumbledore, "where you may tell it in peace."

Potter opened his mouth to respond, looking angry, but Madam Pomfrey interrupted,

"Oh, no you don't! Don't think I haven't noticed the state you're in, young man. Hop into that bed there. Quickly, now, if you please!"

Harry looked back at the matron, shocked, but then cowered under her stern look. His gaze shot to Draco, questioning, and Draco lifted a shoulder as carelessly as he could.

"You may as well get patched up while we're here, Scar-head," he said. "What could it hurt?"

Because apparently Harry thought they were dead.

Draco shoved the idea aside and focused on Dumbledore, leaving a battered Harry Potter to a very determined Madam Pomfrey.

He and Dumbledore retreated to the headmaster's office.

As soon as the door closed behind them, Draco took control of the conversation and asked, "What year is it, sir?"

If Dumbledore was surprised, he didn't show it. He merely clasped his hands upon his desk and looked at Draco through his half-moon spectacles, as benign as a sleeping kneazle.

"The year is 1978, Mister…?"

Draco sighed. He said, "Malfoy, Draco Malfoy. I was born in 1980."

Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, expression shuttering as he heard Draco's last name.

Draco forced himself not to flinch. With all those looks he had received in the past month, he should be used to it.

"I see," said Dumbledore. "And what has caused this anomaly, Mr. Malfoy?"

"I haven't a clue," said Draco, "although Potter thinks we're both dead."

"Potter," repeated Dumbledore thoughtfully. His chin came down to rest upon his laced fingers. "Why would Mr. Potter think you're dead rather than, from your perspective, in the past?"

"The last thing we both saw was green light," said Draco, sinking back into his chair as he honestly considered it. "Potter was about to be killed, but I jumped in front of the curse. It _must_ have hit me or missed both of us. I'm certain it couldn't have hit Potter. But then we woke up in this time in Knockturn Alley, and he was saying the most ridiculous things…."

"Such as?"

"He was wondering why we weren't _naked_ ," Draco sneered, lip curling at the mere idea of being in a street starkers with Potter, "and why… ah… certain people weren't there to greet him, I suppose. Kept muttering about King's Cross Station. I don't know. He hasn't been making sense."

"I see," said Dumbledore again. He surveyed Draco again with that penetrating blue stare. Draco wondered if he knew what he had almost let slip, that Potter had been expecting _Dumbledore_ to greet him in death. Dumbledore, however, continued, "And what prospects do you have for returning to your time? Have you given it thought?"

"I wouldn't know where to begin, sir," said Draco, making an effort to keep his voice steady rather than whiny. He went on doggedly, "I've never studied the theory of time travel. Typically, with most spells, it would be most effective if we knew how we had arrived here in the first place in order to reverse it to return."

"That is true," admitted Dumbledore politely. "Traveling as far as you have is unheard of in my experience. It is quite the conundrum."

"Quite," agreed Draco dryly.

A moment of silence passed between them as each considered the problem that lay before them.

Draco let out a heavy breath and looked out the window onto the pristine Quidditch pitch in the distance.

1978.

His parents had already graduated from Hogwarts and married, he calculated. They were likely still setting themselves up in their proper societal circles and careers before committing to an heir. His father was an only child, and his mother's sisters would have already graduated and moved on to their separate sides of the war.

The war.

It would be raging in 1978. That had been near the height of the Dark Lord's first reign. His father would already be a Death Eater. There was nothing Draco could do to change that.

And Severus—

Draco stilled.

Severus… would be in his seventh year at Hogwarts. He hadn't taken the Mark yet. He hadn't _died_ yet.

Draco's hands were shaking. He clasped them tightly in his lap.

Severus Snape, Draco Malfoy, and Harry Potter, all the same age, or near it.

He wondered what cosmic force had reared its head to make that happen. It was inconceivable….

And Draco yearned.

He yearned to see Severus, even for a moment. To see him alive and unburdened by his role in the war…. It was a thought Draco had never even considered, that there had ever been such a time.

And here it was. He could Apparate to Spinner's End at that very moment and find his teenage godfather, unmarked, unscarred, _alive_.

A lump in Draco's throat made it hard to swallow.

He had expected to die jumping in front of that curse. He hadn't planned it, of course, but the outcome had registered even as he had moved to do it.

And somehow he was in 1978 instead.

A slip of parchment poofed into existence above Dumbledore's desk and fluttered down.

Dumbledore caught it effortlessly and scanned the note.

"It seems your friend Mr. Potter was more severely injured than he let on," said Dumbledore after Vanishing the note. His gaze met Draco's gravely, and Draco found himself sitting up straighter. "Madam Pomfrey would like to keep him for a few days, as he will not consent to go to St. Mungo's. She is also concerned his mind may have been damaged, given his unusual comments. I assume he thinks he is speaking to _his_ matron?"

"I don't know, sir," said Draco. "Madam Pomfrey survived to my knowledge. She wouldn't meet him in the afterlife."

That stare, like x-ray vision, pierced even deeper than before. Draco knew Dumbledore wanted to ask what exactly Madam Pomfrey had survived, but he was restraining himself, just as Draco was making an effort to be vague even though he was desperate for Dumbledore's advice.

He hadn't liked Dumbledore while he had been a student. He had grown up with his parents complaining of the man far too often to hold anything but disdain for him. But, looking back, Draco regretted.

Potter had loved this man like a grandfather, had confided in him, and together Potter and Dumbledore had defeated the Dark Lord— the Dark Lord who scared Draco so much he could hardly be in the same room with him without pissing himself.

Dumbledore may have been eccentric, even manipulative, but he had a mind that came around perhaps once in a century. Even that she-devil Hermione Granger, brightest mind of their whole generation as she'd been called in countless post-war Daily Prophet articles, wasn't on the same level as him.

Draco wanted to confide in a man like Dumbledore. He wanted his _help_.

"Madam Pomfrey does, however, believe both Mr. Potter and Miss McKinnon will make full recoveries," Dumbledore finished quietly, watching him.

McKinnon, Draco thought again.

"She should have died today," he said before he could stop himself. "She died while she was a student, and now she'll get to finish her seventh year. Dolohov was about to use that curse he created, but Potter interfered…."

Dolohov was supposed to kill Gertrude McKinnon.

Draco's mind spun.

Dolohov had been going to kill Potter, kill Draco, but Potter's last words had been, _"You will never kill another living soul, Dolohov!"_

There had been that terrible power, that darkness and cold that had built around Potter. It had flooded over them in a torrent even as Dolohov had released his curse.

_"You will never kill another living soul, Dolohov!"_

And they had gone back to what very well might have been Dolohov's first murder.

"Oh," said Draco faintly. He didn't understand precisely how, but he knew… "It was Potter."

"What do you mean, Mr. Malfoy?"

Draco looked at Dumbledore, and the struggle within himself intensified.

How could he, a Slytherin, a bearer of the Dark Mark, trust and confide in Albus Dumbledore? It was ludicrous. It was…. He was starting to think it was _Severus_ ….

He wanted to go home. He wanted to go home, where the war was over and his parents were safe and… and he needed _help_.

Draco took a deep breath and, as specifically as he was able without revealing too much of the future, explained to Dumbledore exactly what had led up to their return to the past.

"There was this power coming from him I'd never felt before," Draco finished. "And, somehow, with those words, I think it reacted to what he said."

"That would indeed be an incredible power," murmured Dumbledore. "He was using no magical artifact? No spell or ancient rune?"

"Not that I could see, no."

"Fascinating."

They fell silent again.

Draco waited impatiently for the stroke of genius.

Dumbledore twirled the ends of his long beard for many long moments, peering placidly into the distance.

Just as Draco was about to demand to be included in his thoughts, Dumbledore murmured, " _Another_. That must be it."

"Another what?"

"Mr. Potter's words before the Killing Curse," said Dumbledore. "'You will never kill _another_ living soul.'"

Draco's lips wanted to pull into a scowl, but he fought to keep a straight face. "Yes. He obviously thought he could somehow defeat Dolohov. It didn't happen, as you can see."

"'Another' can have multiple meanings," said Dumbledore thoughtfully. "It can mean, as Mr. Potter probably intended, 'another' as in, 'You will not kill _one more_ living soul after this.' However, perhaps his magic interpreted it as, 'You will not kill another— not _any other than your own_ — living soul.' It would be… unheard of, but perhaps not impossible, that his magic transported you back to Dolohov's first victim so that you could stop it."

"Uh," said Draco eloquently.

"An incredible power," murmured Dumbledore again, not looking at Draco. "But how could it be possible? There must be a piece we are missing…."

Draco's heartbeat thrummed like a hummingbird's wings in his veins.

He didn't quite understand, still, but he understood one thing: Potter had thrown them back in time with no time-turner, no incantation, not even a _wand_.

"He's the only one who can get us back, isn't he?" Draco's voice sounded far away even to his own ears.

Dumbledore looked down at his hands, finger laced, resting on his desk.

"Magic… though mysterious and powerful… is as a force of nature," he said. "It is bound by laws of action and reaction, cause and effect. It must make sense, even if we do not see all the pieces that led up to a particular outcome at the time. People, on the other hand…. People, I have found, are just as mysterious and powerful. But they are not bound by the same rationality."

 _Mental_ , Draco sighed to himself. He did get the gist of it, though. Yes, Potter was the only one who could get them back.

A small fission of cold fear swept through him.

They were stuck. They were stuck in 1978, away from the world they knew and instead in an era with a brand new Lord Voldemort rising.

Draco had a money pouch on him, but it wouldn't last long, and he hadn't been _born_ yet. He couldn't access his parents' Gringotts vault. The consequences of even finding and speaking to his parents while he had yet to be conceived….

He had no home. No family or friends. No connections. Salazar, he didn't even have his official N.E.W.T. transcripts to get a decent job. He might as well have been a Muggle-born dropout.

"Why don't you and Mr. Potter stay here for the time being?" said Dumbledore kindly, seeing Draco's rising panic. "We have a week until classes start, and this bears discussion before you simply go out into the world and potentially alter history. Wouldn't you say?"

Draco hesitated and then nodded. A week. Another discussion. He could do that. That was a plan. He _needed_ a plan.

He cleared his throat and said, "Sir, in the future…."

"Mr. Malfoy," said Dumbledore, "I think it would be in everyone's best interest if I did not know—"

"Sir, this is important," said Draco firmly. "I promise I'll Obliviate you afterwards if you feel you shouldn't know, but…" He hesitated again, uncertain exactly how to say what he needed Dumbledore to understand right off the bat. He decided to dive straight into the heart of it. "Potter— Harry— is important. To the future, I mean. And you're important to him."

Dumbledore scrutinized him quietly.

"What I mean is," said Draco, determinedly keeping his composure despite his embarrassment over the words coming out of his mouth, "Potter keeps muttering about 'moving on' and seeing his friends and family again. Maybe his magic reacted to stop Dolohov from killing McKinnon, but maybe… maybe it wanted to let him see… certain people… again."

Still, Dumbledore waited, his gaze skewering Draco to his seat.

" _My_ world needs him," continued Draco, "but… I think we broke him. And… and I think… I think we need your help to fix him."

…

TBC


	3. His heart still beating

" _But they were not living, thought Harry: They were gone. The empty words could not disguise the fact that his parents' moldering remains lay beneath snow and stone, indifferent, unknowing. And tears came before he could stop them, boiling hot then instantly freezing on his face, and what was the point in wiping them off or pretending? He let them fall, his lips pressed hard together, looking down at the thick snow hiding from his eyes the place where the last of Lily and James lay, bones now, surely, or dust, not knowing or caring that their living son stood so near, his heart still beating, alive because of their sacrifice and close to wishing, at this moment, that he was sleeping under the snow with them."_

― J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

* * *

**Chapter 3: His heart still beating**

Harry shuffled under his new Hogwarts robes and rubbed at his hair. It felt weird. He hadn't had hair this shaggy since fourth year, and he certainly wasn't used to seeing straw-blond wisps out of the corner of his eye.

Malfoy and Dumbledore had insisted upon the change, given how much he looked like his father, who was now the same age as him, and they feared going red would draw too much attention to how much his eyes looked like his mother's.

"Stop that incessant fidgeting and have some decorum," Malfoy hissed from beside him, looking dignified in his unmarked robes and warm chestnut hair. They had spelled his hair, too, but he still had the unmistakable arrogance of a pureblood heir, Harry thought uncharitably.

They were waiting amongst the first years to be Sorted. The younger students eyed them with awe and wariness.

Malfoy preened under the attention, though Harry doubted anyone else would notice. They hadn't spent seven years getting to know the prat's moods from across a crowded classroom or Great Hall like he had.

"This is a mistake," said Harry, turning toward the doors for the hundredth time that evening. "I already told Hermione I didn't want to return for my N.E.W.T.s. Time would be better spent—"

"In the best magical library in Britain," said Malfoy, "which is here."

Malfoy stepped between Harry and the doors, forcing his attention on him.

Harry scowled and pulled again at his altered hair.

"Stop it," said Malfoy irritably, swatting Harry's hand down.

"Don't you—" began Harry, incensed, but he was interrupted by a pointed cough from the doorway into the Great Hall. He turned guiltily and saw Professor McGonagall leveling them a disapproving look. "Sorry, Professor."

"Right," she said crisply, giving no sign that they had gotten to know each other at all in the week leading up to the start of term.

Mostly, Harry thought bitterly, he and Malfoy had gotten to know Madam Pince best. She was even stricter and more difficult to get along with than he remembered from his own time. The one time Harry had dared to eat lunch while perusing a book, she had caught him and made him fear for his very life— yes, Malfoy and Dumbledore had done a fair job convincing him he was alive and in the past, not dead.

Though Harry was able to admit he had never known Dumbledore as well as he'd thought, even he knew Dumbledore could not be so cruel as to pretend not to remember him.

Spending the past few days in the library with Malfoy had been uncomfortable at best. It was so strange to be there without Hermione playing taskmaster, without Ron sitting beside him cracking jokes under his breath.

He missed them. The truth hadn't quite sunk in yet— time travel or their deaths.

When Malfoy had asked after them and the catastrophic arrest, Harry hadn't been able to reply at all.

"First years, line up, please," said McGonagall. "Seventh years, at the back of the line. And in we go; follow me."

The tiny group, plus two freshly turned eighteen-year-olds, followed McGonagall into the Great Hall.

Harry's heart clenched as it did every time he entered the Great Hall, which was why he had taken great pains to avoid it in the past week. There were the thousands of candles floating above the four long, glistening tables filled with smartly dressed, freshly scrubbed children. The dark sky glittered with stars above them through the enchanted ceiling.

The last time Harry had seen it, the spell holding the floating candles had been destroyed in the battle, and Flitwick had still been too injured to recast it. The four tables had been vanished to make room for all the bodies.

The smartly dressed children had been bloodied by fierce battle, dead, or both.

The smell of the feast wafting through from the kitchens added a layer of nausea to Harry's roiling gut. He forced himself to keep his eyes forward on the procession of first years. In his pocket, his fingers clenched around his holly wand, which he had reclaimed from Ollivander's on the previous day, grounding him.

It had been bizarre seeing Ollivander so young, and he had cut off the man's speech rather rudely, but he hadn't been able to help it. It had been even more bizarre seeing a young, slender Molly Weasley pulling toddlers Bill and Charlie by the hands as she ran errands in Diagon Alley. Her hair had been in beautiful waves down to her waist, and, for a split second, Harry had thought it was Ginny.

He had almost chased after her until some snide comment from Malfoy had pulled him back to himself.

 _Mallory_ , Harry reminded himself sharply. It was Draco Mallory now. And he was Harry Parker.

It would take some getting used to. Since deciding they would join the student body in order to stay at Hogwarts and continue their research, they had defaulted to calling each other "Scar-head" and "Ferret-face" to avoid the awkward alias thing altogether.

It was better than pretending they were friends and using first names.

McGonagall made the usual show announcing the first years, and the Sorting Hat burst into a rather slapdash song about House traits and its role in sorting them.

It felt empty to Harry and far away, like a half-forgotten dream. The last few Sortings he had actually attended, the hat had been outright political and dire in its speeches.

"So," murmured Malfoy, as they stood at the back of the line and the first years were Sorted. "Do you mind telling me what you know that I don't know?"

"I know a lot of things you don't know, Ferret-face," said Harry, not looking at him. "What are you referring to in specific?"

"Don't get smart with me, Po—Parker," hissed Draco.

"Sorry, I'll try to use smaller words. What—do—you—want—Mallory?"

Malfoy fumed. "You've been holding something back. I didn't know for certain until yesterday evening, but then you lied to Dumbledore. I know you didn't just _find_ his wand in the fireplace when we Floo'd. You were naked when we turned up in Knockturn Alley, and you used it right then and there against Dolohov. What are you hiding?"

Harry didn't answer. He hardly knew himself, except…

Except Dumbledore had been consumed by the Deathly Hallows in the end, almost as much as Voldemort and Grindelwald had been. The only reason the Elder Wand could have come to Harry in Knockturn Alley was if it remembered its allegiance to him in the future. And he didn't know what Dumbledore would do with that knowledge— knowledge that Harry had accidentally accumulated all three Hallows at some point in the past year, and the Elder Wand was truly his.

Harry loved Albus Dumbledore. He loved him in the way he suspected family loved each other: unconditionally, even when he didn't necessarily agree with him.

He hadn't wanted Dumbledore's suspicion or, Merlin forbid, rejection. And so he had lied.

He wasn't stupid enough to think Dumbledore had bought it, of course, but at least he hadn't pushed for the truth. Dumbledore was oddly wary of altering the future, considering he was the one who had suggested Harry and Hermione use a time-turner to save Sirius and Buckbeak in their third year.

"It is a matter of the sheer volume of time in question," Dumbledore had tried to explain during one of their many discussions in the past week as they tried to figure out what to do. "Changing a decision here or there in the immediate past is transmutable. The future may restore itself like the river winding around a single stone breaking its current to resume its original path. But twenty years…. If you move a single stone, then that may cause another stone to shift a year from now, and then perhaps two more stones to shift two years from now, and so on, until you have a raging rapid where there was once a tranquil stream. Do you see the greater issue at stake here, Mr. Potter?"

No, Harry hadn't, but that was typical Dumbledore.

"Fine, keep your secrets," said Malfoy peevishly. "But just know it's not only you who's stuck here. I want to go home, too, you know."

Harry almost felt bad. He still didn't know why Draco Malfoy of all people had been transported along with him— if anything, he had been holding onto _Ron_ when he had been killed— but he had figured out it wasn't Malfoy's doing. Malfoy had no more desire to see another rising Dark Lord than Harry did.

He had also grudgingly acknowledged to himself that Malfoy probably— _probably_ — hadn't been working with Dolohov, as he'd suspected in the heat of battle. But considering Malfoy's controvertible actions during the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry wasn't quite ready to trust him on that.

"And now," said Professor McGonagall, after the last first years had been Sorted, "we have two students recently transferred from our sister school, Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in North America. They will be attending classes here for the year leading up to their N.E.W.T.s in the summer and as such need to be Sorted. First, Draco Mallory."

Draco sniffed, straightened his shoulders and the arrogant tilt of his jaw, and glided up to the stool. McGonagall placed the hat on his head.

To his credit, it took longer than his first Sorting. Harry recalled how the hat had barely grazed his hair before screaming " _SLYTHERIN!"_ the first time. Now, it seemed to debate with him, and Draco muttered under his breath just as Harry had done his first time through. In the end, though, the hat called out again, "SLYTHERIN!"

Malfoy nodded as if satisfied and strode toward the clapping table clad in green and silver.

"Harry Parker," said McGonagall.

Harry trudged forward and sank onto the stool. McGonagall placed the hat on his head.

"Well, well, well," said the hat. "Acquaintances with the last one, I see. Another student I have already Sorted, though I haven't met you yet. Gryffindor last time, was it? Let me see, let me see…."

 _Do what you want_ , thought Harry bluntly. _I have business to take care of this year. It doesn't matter the House._

"How very Slytherin of you, Mr. Potter. However… after seeing what's in your mind, I do not feel I can place you in Slytherin."

 _Why not?_ asked Harry. _Place me in Slytherin. I'll take them down from the inside. They'll never see it coming_.

"Another classic Slytherin sentiment," said the hat. "But, Mr. Potter… you walked to your own death."

Harry's chest went cold.

_I had to. There was a prophecy._

"You had a choice," said the hat. "Mr. Potter, you chose to sacrifice yourself to save everyone you loved. You walked into a forest where you knew you would die. You faced He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and didn't defend yourself. You walked to your death willingly."

 _It was the only way_.

"It was the only way to save the ones you wished to protect," corrected the hat. "There were alternatives. You didn't even consider them."

 _So what?_ thought Harry, anger rising within him like a serpent ready to strike. _Half the students in here are going to die, either in this war or the next. Half the teachers, too. Do you think that makes everyone a Gryffindor? Look, Hat, I just want… I just want to move on. I'm done, okay? I'll help Malfoy get back, that's his choice, but my choice is to go a lot farther than the future. I just want to be with my friends and family again. I'm… I'm nothing without them. I need them._

"Well, why didn't you just say so?" asked the hat jovially. "In that case, it's easy enough. You'll go to GRYFFINDOR!"

The table on the far left roared its approval, and Harry pulled off the hat reluctantly. He nodded to McGonagall as he stood, and she gave him a suspicious but polite nod back.

It hurt. She and Dumbledore were the most difficult to be around because, despite being two decades younger, they still looked like themselves. They looked like _Harry's_ professors.

But Harry reminded himself that this wasn't his McGonagall. She hadn't survived Dumbledore's death yet. She hadn't fought Death Eaters roaming the halls of her beloved Hogwarts, and she hadn't turned the school she loved into the last foothold, the last stand of the Light and then watched it be smashed into rumble and bones.

She had never placed her last hope, the lives of her students and friends, into the hands of Harry Potter.

God, what if she never had to?

The thought was tantalizing, even if Dumbledore had expressly forbidden him and Malfoy from changing any major events they knew of in the past.

Harry kept placing one foot in front of the other, a habit of not-dying so many times, until he reached his old familiar table, filled with unfamiliar bright faces.

Until a male voice called, "Parker, come sit here!" And then, "Shove over Padfoot, suck it in, Wormtail. Moony, what in the blazes are you doing reading a book at the welcoming feast for? Put that up before I take points. PARKER!"

Harry looked up into the young, bespectacled face of James Potter, grinning ear to ear and waving like a lunatic.

James Potter. _You look so much like your father._ James Potter. _He was an arrogant, bullying toe-rag._ James— _Lily, take Harry and go! It's him! Go—run—I'll hold him off—_! Potter.

Green light. High pitched laughter. His mother's screams. Dementors and a Killing Curse.

Harry knew what it was like to look at Voldemort's face while he uttered those last two words.

James was still waving and now pointing emphatically at the seat next to him, between him and— _Sirius_. Young, handsome, arrogant Sirius Black. Padfoot. _Snuffles_. His godfather. Brilliant, reckless, energetic — _such men are not usually content to sit at home in hiding while they believe others to be in danger_ —

Bellatrix's shrill laughter, a rippling veil—

 _Sirius_.

_Does it hurt?_

_Dying? Not at all. Quicker and easier than falling asleep_.

And— Harry couldn't breathe. There was Remus Lupin, sitting next to the mousy haired, pointy-nosed Wormtail, tucking his book beneath the table with a shy, apologetic smile and… and he was _young_ , but he was _Lupin._

 _A boy!_ Lupin, dazed by his own happiness. _You'll be godfather?_

 _I didn't want you to die. Right after you'd had your son_ — _Remus, I'm sorry—_

His shabby, perfect professor. Tea and grindylows and werewolves.

And there was Wormtail, twitchy uncomfortably under Harry's haunted gaze, painfully shy and inferior.

What a goddamn coward.

Even young, Harry had nothing else to think about Wormtail, Peter Pettigrew, the _rat_.

Harry allowed himself to be ushered onto the bench next to James, hardly flinching at all at his touch, and he looked down to find a glimmering golden plate and goblet appear before him.

"It takes a while to get used to," said a female voice directly across from him, and Harry looked up into green eyes as vivid as his own. Lily Evans smiled kindly and—

_Not Harry, please no, take me, kill me instead—_

— _Stay close to me_ —

_Until the very end._

_Avada Kedavra._

"I'm Lily Evans, Gryffindor seventh year, Head Girl," said Lily. "That overdramatic baboon there is James Potter, Head Boy. I'm afraid you'll be sharing a dorm with him and the boys." She grinned, sharp and fast, a fierce, witty light like a fire in her eyes. "Welcome to Hogwarts, Harry."

…

The two seventh year Slytherin prefects, Evan Rosier and Johanna Wilkes, tried to point Draco to a seat across from them like a disobedient dog, but Draco smiled a polite, icy smile and sat between Severus and a teenager who _had_ to be a Greengrass.

He proceeded to ignore Rosier and Wilkes with the magnanimous grace he'd picked up from his mother at holiday balls. She had normally employed it against those pureblood and half-blood families with recent besmirches to their names— a daughter marrying a Muggleborn, a son producing a squib heir— but Draco had learned the tool well enough to use it for his own agenda.

 _Gryffindor, please_ , Draco thought derisively of his conversation with the Sorting Hat. _I'd rather eat my wand. Of all the insulting, impertinent things to suggest…._

He made a mental note in the back of his mind that Potter could _never_ find out.

Despite what the rest of _his_ world thought of Slytherins after the war, Draco was proud of his ambition and cunning. He had both aplenty.

And more than that… _Severus_. His godfather was sitting right beside him in the flesh. Young. _Alive_.

Draco could scarcely sit still for the giddiness swirling inside him.

"If you thought turning down your first offer of alliance would be a show of power," said the Greengrass girl, "that was a poor choice. Rosier and Wilkes— those prefects— are at the top of the hierarchy. They'll make you pay for that."

Draco gave an elegant shrug and waited for his goblet to fill itself.

It looked like he would have to wait until after the welcoming speech, unfortunately.

"Rosier and Wilkes," he repeated pensively, pretending to mull it over. Then, "No, I'm afraid it would never have worked out between us. Draco Mallory, at your service. And you are?"

"Elodie Greengrass," said the girl. She had a droning, subdued voice, but a cutting glint in her pale eyes. "And that fellow there with his nose already in a textbook is Severus Snape."

"Charmed," said Draco, watching his godfather for a reaction.

But Severus continued pouring over his book, a Transfiguration text, and didn't even glance up at the attention.

"He has his moods," said Greengrass sedately, "especially just after the summer hols."

It stung. Draco couldn't pretend even to himself that it didn't, but he couldn't show it. Severus wasn't his godfather— not yet. He was just a clueless teenager trying to survive school in the Slytherin house. He didn't owe Draco anything.

He didn't know Draco owed him everything.

"Right," said Draco, hoping his voice didn't sound as brittle as it felt.

He reminded himself he wasn't there to stay, anyway. Though Draco and Dumbledore suspected Potter was the only one who could return them to their proper time, Harry had laughed at the idea. He had been no help to the point of _obstinance_.

The plan, therefore, was to research a solution in the library, and meanwhile, in case they never found what they were looking for, at least create an identity they could use in the outside world complete with N.E.W.T. credentials. If they hadn't found a spell to return them to their proper time by the end of the school year, they were doomed to live out the rest of their lives quietly, not interfering with the events they knew would happen.

It was something neither of them wanted.

"What was Ilvermorny like?" Greengrass asked, gazing at him with dewy eyes.

"It was fashioned after Hogwarts," said Draco, shaking himself from dismal thoughts, "so it was rather similar, I imagine. Four houses, teachers and tests. It's a castle on a mountain rather than a lake, though."

He hoped she didn't ask for details. He had read the brief paragraph about Ilvermorny in _The Founding of Standardized Schooling in Britain and Across the World_ before committing to their cover story. He'd never visited, though, and he had only met one American wizard in his life.

"You don't have an American accent," she observed.

Draco glared up at the staff table, where Dumbledore was in conversation with McGonagall. Why wasn't he giving the welcoming speech yet?

"My family and I are from Britain," said Draco stiffly. "We only moved to America for a few years for my father's job."

Greengrass hummed thoughtfully.

Finally, Dumbledore rose and held his arms out, as if to greet each and every student with a simultaneous embrace.

Draco let out a sigh of relief.

"To our new students, welcome!" he said in a ringing voice. "To our old hands, welcome back! I have only a few start-of-terms notices before we sink into this delicious feast and become too befuddled by good food and good company to pay attention to an old man's ramblings.

"First years, please note that the forest is out-of-bounds. _Select seventh years_ would do well to remember this, too." He stared straight at the Gryffindor table, and for a moment, Draco automatically assumed he was talking to the Weasley twins again before he remembered where he was.

Did Dumbledore know Harry that well already?

He almost sniggered.

"Secondly, caretaker Filch has asked that I remind you for the, ah, two-hundred-and- _seventieth_ time now that magic in the corridors between classes is forbidden, as are a number of things he will let you know as he sees them.

"Next, we are very pleased to welcome back Professor Kettleburn from his sudden mid-term vacation last spring, and he asks that you please refrain from asking personal questions about the two fingers missing on his remaining arm."

A wild-haired man with an eyepatch and one arm raised his three-fingered hand in the air to accept his applause, which was rather loud and jubilant for a simple professor's return from a vacation.

"Also, we are delighted to have a new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher joining us: Professor Bowie!"

A grim-looking man with a messy blond bun on his head and an overabundance of jewelry raised a whiskey flask and lit cigarette in greeting.

His applause was slower to start, scattered and confused.

Draco eyed him in disbelief. And he'd thought they were scraping the bottom of the barrel for Defense professors in the _future_.

"Professor Bowie would like me to announce the revival of our school's dueling club, with mandatory attendance at least once a week for fifth years and higher."

There was a mix of groaning and cheering in response.

Draco grimaced. But Salazar, Bowie did look a bit like that idiot Lockheart, didn't he? He could only hope their similarities ended at the blond hair and jewelry.

"And, as always, those wishing to try out for their House Quidditch team should submit their names to their Head of House before the last Friday of this month."

Dumbledore fell silent for a moment, looking out at them. Candlelight flickered in his half-moon spectacles, obscuring his eyes. He continued more quietly, and the student body hardly breathed for fear of drowning his voice out, "I need not remind you what dark times we find ourselves in. The danger to our families, the danger to our society outside these walls has never been greater. I have always strived to make Hogwarts a safe haven for students. However, I need your cooperation and support in order to make it truth. Please, I cannot urge you strongly enough to do the right thing. Take care of one another. If you see anything strange or suspicious, report it to a member of the staff immediately. Obey the rules, even as pointless or restricting as you may find them. Only by actively choosing to be cautious, vigilant, and united will we get through this terrible time. Thank you.

"Now, let us tuck in! Pip pip!"

Draco looked around at the gourmet spread that had appeared at Dumbledore's clap and couldn't have felt less hungry.

All around the table, Slytherins of every year were smirking knowingly to each other, jostling a neighbor in the ribs, or treating the rest of the Houses to predatory, superior looks.

Severus didn't look up from his book, but his jaw was clenched and the knuckles wrapped around the text were white.

Draco wished maybe he had chosen Gryffindor this time around, after all.

…

James Potter shot a sideways glance at Sirius without moving his head.

It took Sirius a moment to stop shoveling blackberry tarts into his mouth to catch it, but when he did, he cast James a surreptitious thumbs-up beneath the table. Cheeks still as full as a chipmunk's, Sirius gave Remus's toe a stomp next to him, and Remus jolted.

Remus gave Sirius a look that could have scorched paint off a wall, but this his eyes moved to meet James's, and he gave a fraction of a nod.

Rather than trying to be subtle with Peter, Remus tapped Wormtail on the shoulder and whispered something in his ear.

Peter broke into a face-splitting grin and only tried to take it back a notch when Remus muttered something else in his ear, wearing a look of mild chastisement.

Peter nodded into his dessert plate, covering his mouth with a hand as if politely to keep people from seeing him chew.

Message received down the line, Sirius looked pointedly at the boy sitting between them, Harry Parker, and then tilted his head at James, a question made to look like he was smoothing his fine, wavy hair in front of the ladies who were staring at him.

How the girls could still be so enamored when Sirius was chewing open-mouthed with cheeks like he'd tried to swallow two whole planetary globes, James would never understand.

Again, James moved his eyes without turning his head. He studied Harry.

A bit off, that one, he and Sirius had almost instantly and nonverbally agreed.

There had been a look in his startling green eyes when he'd approached them like he didn't know whether to break into laughter or tears. The look had been so intense, James's heart had skipped a beat when those haunted eyes looked directly into his.

Then, despite the visceral response to seeing them, the boy had hardly said two words since. He had sunk into the spot between James and Sirius and then picked at his food uninterestedly. Even though he was skin and bones and, beyond that, looked so exhausted he might have spent the day leading up to the feast _swimming across the Atlantic_ to get from Ilvermorny to Hogwarts, James was sure he hadn't actually taken a bite yet.

James thought uncomfortably of the rumors of Voldemort's Inferi army and wondered, only half-joking, if they had an infiltrator in their midst.

He glanced back at Sirius and gave an infinitesimal shake of his head.

Harry wouldn't be a problem. He'd have to be more alive to run to a teacher over what they were about to do.

Sirius nodded his understanding, and four hands went idly to the wands in their pockets down the Gryffindor table.

James counted it down with what would look like an absent-minded tapping of his fork against his plate to the casual observer.

 _Three, two, one_ — he set the fork down— _go_.

It was their traditional welcoming feast fireworks display. The chatter was dying down across the hall, bellies were uncomfortably full, and students were happily looking forward to returning to their old beds for a blissful night's sleep.

James started, providing the distraction so the others could levitate, toss, or downright run their bundles of fireworks to the proper locations. It had taken forever to figure out the spell used to enchant the floating candles and _also keep the melting wax from dropping on students' heads every second like tiny scalding bombs_ , but he'd needed to learn it so he could alter it to do… _this_.

The little balls of flames detached themselves from the candles and rose into the air. It took the students and teachers a few seconds to even notice, but then they quickly began "ooh"-ing and "ahh"-ing.

James glanced furtively at the head table. The professors were usually more tolerant of the fireworks display at the welcoming feast as long as it was relatively harmless and the skill behind it impressive enough. They _did_ enjoy a student who studied over the summer break.

And— yes!— McGonagall's eyebrows rose, impressed, and Flitwick looked like his birthday had come early.

The Marauders were in the clear.

A bit of a show-off— and Wormtail needed a bit more time to get back from the Hufflepuff table on foot— he had the candle lights change color in a fluid, unending wave, like a rainbow rippling across the surface of a lake.

Across the table, Lily gave a small, appreciative gasp, and James felt his heart skip a beat, but then it was _soaring_.

All eyes were locked on the mesmerizing display.

Wormtail was back.

Remus took over the next bit while James floated on his Lily high.

The flames shuddered for a split second before turning sapphire blue and gleaming bronze. The amorphous cloud took shape, coalescing into a giant bronze and blue eagle. The great eagle flapped its wings and gave a screeching, "CAW!" before taking flight around the hall.

Ravenclaw lost its mind, standing and cheering, while the other Houses and teachers clapped and laughed good-naturedly.

While Remus had the fire-eagle swooping, twirling, and soaring like the apex flyer it was, Sirius shot off a spell under the table to ignite the fireworks surrounding Ravenclaw table.

Blue and white sparks erupted from the table, flowing and crashing over it like an ocean wave, complete with misty spray. James flicked and jabbed his wand in their direction, a modified _Aguamenti_ they'd worked out in fifth year to mimic rain, and the next crash of firework waves exploded out of existence and left the whole of Ravenclaw House soaked, as if they'd taken a real ocean wave to their table.

Above them, the eagle dove into the dispersing water and landed on the table a yellow and black badger.

Wormtail's turn.

The badger was a little disproportionate, its left side a little chubbier than its right, its ears a bit too big and tail oddly curly and off-colored, but it wasn't bad considering Wormtail hadn't scraped together a good enough O.W.L. score in transfiguration to continue to N.E.W.T. level.

Wormtail had the small-animal behavior down pat, though.

The fire-badger stood on its hindlegs in the middle of Ravenclaw table, sniffing with its nose up high in the air, its smoky little whiskers quivering.

A few of the Ravenclaw girls _aww_ 'd.

Then the badger dropped to all four legs and scurried off, startlingly fast. It raced around the Great Hall under Peter's direction, stopping suddenly to sniff or darting unexpectedly toward someone. The students laughed as the badger went to harass the Hufflepuff table, trying to climb on students and nose into their pockets.

Hufflepuff didn't think it was quite as funny, given it wasn't a real badger but _fire_.

Peter sniggered as he twitched and flicked his wand, going after a girl who had called him a dunce on the Express a few hours earlier.

Remus shot off a spell under the table to ignite the fireworks under Hufflepuff table.

Streams of brown, gray, and green sparks shot up, covering the table in a snapping, popping image of grassy, deep dirt.

The fire-badger went to town digging, and here Sirius cast a spell he had created to directly combat his mother's constant _Scourgify_ 's in fourth year. Dirt. Dirt and grass and mud and something that smelled tremendously like fertilizer. As the badger kicked dirt merrily over all the Hufflepuffs, Sirius grinned behind his hand, took aim at the badger's targets, and shot off jets of dirt at them.

The Hufflepuffs cried in outrage, jumping out of their seats and trying to shield themselves, but Peter and Sirius were insistent.

Once everyone had had their fair share, the badger dropped down, shifted, and became a snake in the grass.

Sirius took over.

The snake was a gorgeous piece of magic. Emerald green and antique silver, individual candle flames curved in an intricate pattern to create the illusion of scales.

Sirius grew it slowly as it slithered to the edge of Hufflepuff table and slid down… and down, and down, until its tail hit the flagstone floor twenty feet behind its sleek head, its body as wide around as a grown man's torso.

James didn't imagine Harry's flinch at the sight, and he privately agreed with the sentiment.

Snakes were the worst.

The snake slithered slowly, sinisterly across the Great Hall, hissing lowly.

The students and teachers stared, transfixed, holding their breath.

So, James had cast the hissing spell mostly to cover up Sirius's muttered monologue in the silence as he twisted and swirled his wand under the table.

"Oh, no, what's that on my tail?" Sirius whispered in falsetto as the snake swayed drunkenly back around on itself, curling up and eyeing the hall judgmentally. Only those nearest Sirius could hear him. "By Salazar, it's dirt! Dirt on my tail! Why would such a noble, purebred serpent as I have _unclean dirt_ on my tail? _Gasp!_ It's because I haven't any legs! No legs, great golly! I mean— great Salazar! What happened to my Merlin-loving legs?"

The snake lifted its head and flitted its tongue to taste the air. Its head wound to face Slytherin table.

"Leeegggsss," Sirius whispered. "You have leeeeeeggggssss, Slytherinsssss. I wantssss your legssss. Snivellusssss, come closer…. Your greasssse will fuel my flaaaaamessssss, and I need leeegggsssss."

Harry Parker was staring at Sirius in horrid fascination. His expression darkened at the mention of Snivellus, though, and took a disapproving hue.

James let his head drop in his free hand and made the hissing spell even louder. "I'm going to smother him with his pillow tonight, I swear to the Founders."

The snake slithered onto the Slytherin table, and it would have been eerie, chilling even, had James not been able to hear Sirius's ridiculous commentary. The realism of the flame-snake, the powerful, graceful way it moved, the way its tongue flicked and it raised its body to stare at each student dead in the eye.

"Ohh, what a lovely bonnet," Sirius whispered as the snake stared down one second year girl. "I just remembered I'm a girl snake, and I need a bonnet to cover up _how I have no hair!_ And—gibbering toadstools, _I'm naked!_ Quick, lasssssiesssss, give me your clothessssssss…. I can't let Sssaalazaaaar see my laaaaadyyy-ssssnake partsssss…"

Forget waiting until they got to the dorm. James was going to drown him in a vat of pumpkin juice right here.

He sent a stinging hex at Sirius's foot, warning him to wrap it up.

Grudgingly, the flame-snake moved to the center of Slytherin table, and Sirius split some of the candle flames from the mass to become a clutch of eggs, which the _lady-snake, for Merlin's sake_ , wrapped herself around. She regarded the Slytherins with venom in her gaze and upon her forked, candlelight-flickering tongue.

James shot off a spell at Sirius's fireworks.

Sirius had gone less for creativity and more for explosions.

As the fireworks bombarded the Slytherins with blinding flashes of light and ear-shattering booms, the fire-snake exploded in a flare of red and pink gore, and eggs rained down from the ceiling.

A lot of good chickens had sacrificed their young for this prank to come together, James noted with a solemn nod of gratitude.

The blinded, deafened Slytherins were not prepared to be physically struck by projectiles. They jumped around, screaming and pointing wands, though they had no idea what they were pointing at, because the projectiles turned gooey and slimy after they struck their targets, and what _were_ they?

Eggs were a funny business if you weren't in the know.

The Slytherin Ilvermorny boy, James noticed, had conjured an umbrella and was watching the commotion with the dry interest of a scholar, untouched.

So he was odd, too, huh?

Maybe it was the school that did that to them both.

Harry, James saw, was frowning harder, displeased. Then James noticed an equally dark warning look from McGonagall and Slughorn, and he quickly moved onto his part.

James took control of the red grotesque flames and rearranged them into a crimson and gold lion.

With great dignity, the lion hopped to the ground. His shaggy, golden head high, he sauntered away from the Slytherin table and straight up to the teachers' table. Remus provided the enchantment to make him purr, deep and rumbling in his fictional chest. And, like James's mother's dearly beloved cat, the lion slinked leisurely up to Professor Dumbledore and butted his massive head into the headmaster's chair, demanding pets and adoration.

Dumbledore chortled and feigned scratching the great cat under the chin. Remus had it purr even louder.

The lion moved on to twine around McGonagall, who was struggling not to crack a smile, and then Kettleburn, who grinned in delight and made big motion with his one arm. It was his usual hand gesture when he talked about how loud some magical creatures were and, though it looked different with only three remaining fingers, Remus must have caught it, too. James had the lion throw its head back, and Remus provided a frighteningly good roar.

With Kettleburn's full-bellied laugh, the lion made his way off the teacher's platform and toward the Gryffindor table.

James's housemates eyed it warily. They had seen what had happened to all the other houses.

James hammed it up a bit, keeping the tension going as the lion apparently lazily went around stretching to show off his sleek, muscular body, and jutting his fuzzy, flickering head into people's chairs in demands for praise.

Finally, the lion jumped onto the table and sauntered straight up to Lily. It sat down in front of her and stared, heavy-lidded and purring.

Nice one, Remus.

Sirius, on the other hand, leaned forward to mouth, ' _That's_ your cue?' with a great deal of scorn. Nevertheless, he shot off a spell to ignite the Gryffindor table fireworks.

White, silver, and gold streaks seared into the air to join the stars in the enchanted ceiling. There was a flash like sunlight, and then the hundreds of burning projectiles fluttered softly back to the ground, their shapes changed into that of delicate, glowing white lilies.

James allowed the flame-lion to dissipate so he could see Lily's reaction across from him.

The Great Hall fell into darkness without the candles. The moon and stars lined everything in the most fragile silver. The Gryffindor table alone stood out as the fading lilies glowed softly, blanketing them.

Lily didn't look at him right away. She looked at a flower than had fallen onto her empty plate and, with gentle, slender fingertips, picked it up. She cupped it in her hands, transfixed. Her lips twitched and quivered, struggling not to smile.

Then she closed her eyes, bowed her head, and gave a soft laugh.

She looked up at James with mirth in her eyes and a quirk of a smile.

"Cute, Potter," she said. "It might even be your best fireworks display yet."

"Me?" asked James, though the brightness of his answering grin might as well have lit up the whole hall. "I don't know why you'd think I would do something like this. Why, as Head Boy, I know we aren't supposed to _vandalize_ other houses in such a manner!"

Then Sirius was on top of him, shoving his face into the table, where James's half-eaten pie smeared across his glasses.

"Padfoot! Get off! What—?"

"We trashed the lily idea _ages_ ago, you berk!" Sirius was saying as he and James wrestled over the table. "We let you take the best house, and _this_ is what you do? What lame ass—"

"Mr. Black, do please get your hands out of Mr. Potter's trousers," said Dumbledore tranquilly, cutting through the excited buzz of voices in the darkness.

James and Sirius froze, Sirius in the act of stuffing pudding down the front of James's pants and James in the process of shoving Sirius's head into the vat of pumpkin juice.

"Dear Head Boy," Dumbledore continued serenely as the rest of the students roared with laughter at their expense. "Perhaps you and the Head Girl would be kind enough to relight the candles? Since, of course, handling the aftermath of pranks is something that falls under your _responsibilities_ this year. And then, after that is done, you may choose three terribly generous individuals to help clean up the rest of this…" he gestured to the dirt and fertilizer, the puddles of water, the carnage of raw eggs, "…mess."

"Of course, Headmaster," said James, blushing. Sirius was trying to tap out, his face having been submerged in pumpkin juice for several seconds now, but James shoved it down even harder and attempted to rub his nose against the bottom of the bowl.

Remus finally separated them.

James turned to Lily, feeling that dopey smile return as he looked at her in the starlight.

"Think you're up to this, Evans?" he asked in his cockiest voice.

Lily raised an eyebrow and smirked.

"We learned how to light a candle in first year, Potter," she said, pulling out her wand. "I think I've got this."

She started swishing her wand before James could stop her. Horrified, he dove across the table at her, shouting like a madman, "No, the wax! THE WAX!"

He crashed through the plates and half-eaten dishes, and his momentum saw him tackling Lily to the ground from behind.

As Lily slapped the shit out of him for the thirty-first time ever, and the first time in seventh year, Sirius barked with laughter until he started choking, hacking up more pumpkin juice from his lungs.

Parker was staring at them, the look of disapproval melting from his expression. He looked even more mesmerized by _them_ than most students had been by the lightshow.

"I think he's waiting for us to do a trick," James whispered to Lily, on top of whom he was still lying. "Quick, let's kiss. It's the only wa—"

Slap number thirty-two, second of the seventh year.

Lily shoved him off her with an irritated huff.

...

TBC...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the comments, follows, and favorites! And, of course, thank you Stoneage Woman for beta-ing! Y'all are the best! 💖


	4. I wish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Panic attack ahead

" _I wish...I wish I were dead..."_

" _And what use would that be to anyone?"_

― J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

* * *

**Chapter 4: I wish**

James and Lily both pulled Remus, Sirius, and Peter to help them clean up the mess from their fireworks display, leaving Harry to find his own way to the seventh-year Gryffindor dorm.

He wasn't upset— at least, not about going to the dorm alone. It gave him ample opportunity to set up the wards he, Ron, and Hermione had perfected over their year on the run. He had found weeks ago that, despite Voldemort's defeat, he could no longer sleep without them.

He settled into the bed nearest the door, careful of his still-tender ribs, and lay down.

It didn't take him long to figure out he wouldn't be getting any sleep that night.

He couldn't get the images out of his head— Sirius tormenting Snape, James preening in front of Lily, Wormtail sitting there in their midst, laughing and playing along, _one_ of them, and Remus… Remus alive and happy, unburdened by the stigma that would plague him the moment he stepped foot outside of Hogwarts.

Then the images shifted. He saw Hermione falling under Dolohov's purple curse, that look of surprise still etched on her face.

He saw Ron crumple one last time under that same wand, his face still red from the force of his screaming.

Harry propelled himself out of bed before he realized he meant to. His hands were shaking, his breathing coming in ragged gasps.

He screwed his eyes shut and pressed the heels of his hands into them, trying to force the pictures out from behind his eyelids, but it was no use. He could still see Ron and Hermione. He could still _hear_ them.

He tried to breathe, tried to think of anything else.

He didn't know how long he stood there, but, slowly, he became aware of staring into space, his breathing returned to normal and holding his wand, which had been stashed under his pillow, in a white-knuckled grip at his side.

He let out a breath.

No, he didn't think he'd try sleeping again soon.

With nothing else to occupy him, he wandered down to the common room, thinking of sitting in front of the fire.

A girl who looked startlingly like Gertrude McKinnon was already there, chatting coyly with a sixth-year boy and his friends. As soon as she saw Harry, however, her eyes widened, and she ushered the boys up to their dorm.

"Trudy told me what you did," said the girl, taking Harry by the elbow and leading him to the sofa directly in front of the fire. She pulled him down next to her. It was intimate, Harry found, but there was nothing romantic or playful in her eyes. "I'm her sister, Marlene. Harry… _thank you_. Without you and your friend… I might have lost my _sister_."

Tears sprang to her eyes, and Harry grimaced. He patted her shoulder awkwardly and muttered, "It was nothing. Anyone would have done it."

Marlene wiped her eyes and glared at Harry, remarkably like her sister. "No, anybody _wouldn't_ have done it!" she said. "We— the seventh year girls— we're an odd generation. Me, Trudy, Lily, Mary… we're all Muggle-born, you see. And we've always had to look out for each other because nobody else will. And we— we weren't there for her last week! She didn't have anybody else; she could have _died_. And then _you_ came along, and… and…" She sniffled and forced herself to hold her chin high. She said, "And we're _thankful_. So, whichever of us got to you first, we wanted to say you don't need to worry about a thing this year, alright? We all know how hard it is being an outsider, and we've got your back. You'll have at least one of us in all of your classes, so we can show you to the classrooms and help you catch up on anything you missed from the previous years. And we'll never leave you to fend for yourself at mealtimes, and you'll never face a Slytherin alone while we're here, and… and…."

She seemed determined to offer more, to offer everything he could possibly need, but Harry cut her off gently.

"Thank you," he said. "That's… that's really kind of you, Marlene. I appreciate it."

Marlene nodded in acceptance, her bottom lip trembling, but she took a breath and regained control of herself. She said more crisply, "I saw you didn't like the boys' welcoming feast prank earlier. Don't worry about them, okay? Once they see you're friends with me and Lily, they won't dare bother you."

"You and Lily?" Harry echoed, surprised. He could guess why James wouldn't want to antagonize Lily, but he'd never heard of Marlene McKinnon in relation to them.

"James won't do anything to upset Lily," said Marlene matter-of-factly. "He's a fool for her. And Sirius Black knows better than to mess with _me_."

She tossed her long, dark hair behind her shoulders, a pleased, wicked gleam in her dark eyes.

She reminded Harry not of Bellatrix, but of Andromeda. They were similar, but so very, very different. He suddenly wished Sirius had told him about her, this girl who had been such a nuisance to Voldemort that he'd had her entire family annihilated.

Harry found himself smiling despite his dismal thoughts. "Thanks, Marlene."

"You're our friend, Harry," said Marlene boldly. "Don't forget it. We won't."

She excused herself shortly after that, and Harry followed suit.

It was much easier to sleep than before.

…

Their first class the following morning was Defense Against the Dark Arts.

All four of the Gryffindor seventh year girls crowded around Harry to show him the way.

"So you're the buggered class," said Professor Bowie, not bothering to stand up from behind his desk or put out his cigarette. Even the door into the corridor was left open. "First class to have a different Defense professor every year, I hear, and you'll be trying to scrape together a passing N.E.W.T. at the end of this."

He laughed.

As N.E.W.T. students, there were few enough of them that all four houses had the same class together.

Harry caught Malfoy's raised eyebrow and unimpressed look, glancing over to see if Harry found it as amusing.

Harry gave him a deadpan look in response. Yes, they'd also had the same problem, but that didn't mean it was any less of a problem. O.W.L.s had been messy enough. He could only imagine N.E.W.T.s would be even worse.

"We've had some very good professors, sir," said Lily indignantly. "Just because they didn't stay long doesn't mean we didn't learn what they had to teach."

"But what _did_ they teach, Miss…?"

"Evans. Lily Evans. And I've still got my final exams from previous years, if you'd like to see."

"That won't be necessary, Miss Evans," said Bowie, with a grin that reminded Harry of Mad-Eye Moody just before a fight. "I already know what I want to teach you lot, and it has nothing to do with exams. How many of you are Muggle-borns or half-bloods? Oh, alright, Slytherins, I know you're not going to answer. My point is… I'm going to teach you to _survive_. We've got less than nine months before you lot are out in the real world where there's a war on, and at least half of you are going to be targeted. I don't care about the N.E.W.T. curriculum. I care about your lives. Anyone got a problem with that?"

A handsome seventh year Slytherin that reminded Harry forcibly of Tom Riddle raised his hand.

"I have a future in the Ministry, Professor," said the boy lazily. "Can I at least expect you to _glance_ at the curriculum?"

A few of the Slytherins chuckled.

"Mr…?" said Bowie expectantly.

"Rosier, sir," said the boy. "Evan Rosier."

"Ah, Rosier," said Bowie darkly. "Your father is head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, isn't he?"

"That's right, sir."

"Bang up job he's done of that," muttered Bowie, and Rosier's face twisted. "Yes, for your information, Mr. Rosier, there _is_ some information from the seventh-year curriculum I've found worthwhile. If you study the text on your own time, you just might do well enough for your father to hand you a job on a silver platter, like you've always expected. Anyone else?"

Rosier scowled. Several of the Slytherins looked offended on his behalf. The other students remained silent.

"Alright, let me see where you're at," said Bowie. "I can't think of a better student to start us off than our very own Head Boy. Come up here, Mr. Potter."

Harry jolted, but luckily, James stood up and headed to the front of the room before anyone noticed.

"I'm going to cast an illusion," said Bowie, "of a Dark creature or wizard. They will attack immediately. Defend yourself!"

Before the class had time to prepare themselves, a cloaked figure had appeared in front of James and shot a brilliant red spell from its wand.

" _Protego!_ " said James, reacting effortlessly, and the curse bounced off his glowing shield. " _Expelliarmus!_ "

The illusion-man's wand flew from his grasp and into the air, where it vanished with a flick of Bowie's wand.

"Correct," said Bowie. "The Shield Charm will repel all but the Darkest curses, and it's always good to disarm your opponent first chance you get. Five points to Gryffindor. Alright, Potter, have a seat. Miss Evans, you're Head Girl, let's have you next."

Lily marched forward with a determined set to her jaw.

"Now!"

A lurching, groaning corpse appeared out of nowhere, arms outreached for Lily. It was surprisingly fast.

" _Incendio!_ " cried Lily, blasting a stream of fire at the Inferius' chest.

The creature wailed in agony before Bowie flicked his wand again, and it disappeared.

"Correct. Fire is the only defense against Inferi, as no spell has been found to prevent dead flesh from burning. Five more points to Gryffindor. I'd have given _more_ points for the Firestorm Spell, which I'll be teaching this year, but I'm not surprised you either don't know it or didn't dare use it in a classroom. Alright, Miss Evans, have a seat. Let's see… Mr. Rosier, you were so enthusiastic earlier. Why don't you come try your hand next?"

Rosier smirked and rose gracefully to his feet. He sauntered to the front of the room.

Mr. Bowie cast his illusion, and all the warmth vanished from the classroom.

Harry found his teeth chattering, a familiar, all-encompassing dread filling his chest as a hooded, cloaked figure rose in the front of the room.

A dementor.

Rosier's smirk became more of a scowl. " _Expecto Patronum!_ " he cried, but not even silver mist emanated from his wand. His whole face twitched, and he tried again, " _Expecto Patronum!_ "

Nothing. The dementor slowly advanced, reaching out a skeletal gray hand toward Rosier's throat.

The cold grew worse.

Harry thought of Ron and Hermione, unmoving. They'd stayed by his side to the very end. It was _his_ fault they were dead.

Just like it was his fault they were all dead— his parents, Sirius, Remus, Tonks, Mad-Eye Moody, Fred…

"Anybody want to help Mr. Rosier?" asked Rosier, taking a puff on his cigarette. "Anyone?"

The class was looking pale. Their breath frosted in the air.

"Mr. Parker, has Ilvermorny perhaps taught the Patronus Charm?"

Harry got to his feet in a daze. A Patronus. Yes. Yes, he needed to cast a Patronus. That would get the images out of his head. If he cast a Patronus, maybe he would be able to stop shaking.

Automatically, he started calling memories to the forefront of his mind. Luna, " _We're still alive. We're still fighting_." Dumbledore's portrait in the headmaster's office, eyes shining with pride.

He raised his wand, ragged breaths fogging the air.

"Don't be daft, Po— Parker!" said Malfoy, getting to his feet first, an angry red stain on his pale cheeks. "Madam Pomfrey said no practical magic for at least a week! I'll do it."

Harry gaped at him.

Lost in the dementor's misery, he had forgotten Malfoy was there. He'd forgotten where he was— in the past, in front of the only people in the world who would recognize his Patronus's form for what it was.

And they couldn't know.

" _Expecto Patronum!_ " said Malfoy sharply, slashing his wand at the front of the classroom.

His Patronus wasn't corporeal, but it was bright and swift. It raced between the desks to launch itself between Rosier and the illusory dementor like a misty, silvery shield.

"Not bad, Mallory," huffed Bowie, ending the dementor illusion. The whole class breathed a sigh of relief. "Five points to Slytherin for the save. Rosier, looks like you need a bit of practice. Knowing the incantation isn't enough if you can't perform the spell. And Mr. Parker, _Madam Pomfrey_ isn't going to save you from an attack. I don't care if you're injured or half-dead. If you can breathe, you can fight, understand?"

"Yes, sir," said Harry. Now that the dementor's effects were wearing off, he found himself irrationally angry at Malfoy for stepping in. "I know that."

He wouldn't meet Malfoy's eye for the rest of class.

"He's a bit delicious, isn't he, your Ilvermorny friend?" asked Marlene, sliding neatly up to Harry at the end of class. She was throwing a heavy-lidded look over her shoulder at Malfoy. "I don't usually go for Slytherins, but that was just sweet how he stood up for you."

Sirius's bark of laughter on his other side made Harry jump.

"Yeah, Parker, that was _just sweet_ ," said Sirius, throwing an arm around Harry's shoulders. It was less a companionable gesture and more a vise, trapping him in place. "Were you friends with a _Slytherin_ back at your school? How _charming!_ "

"Why don't you run along, _Padfoot_?" said Marlene mockingly, shooting the Marauder a venomous glare.

"They don't _have_ Slytherins at Ilvermorny," came Lily's voice coming up on Marlene's other side. It was chilly. "Next time you want to make fun of someone's choice of friends, why don't you think first?"

"Because the timing would be lost, Evans," said Sirius, but he seemed to realize Harry was too well-defended to continue. He gave Harry's shoulders a parting shake, too rough to be entirely friendly, and let go. "Jokes are all about timing."

"Too right you are, Padfoot!" James bounded up to them, straightening his bookbag and sending Lily a winning smile. "Timing is crucial to a good joke. What are we talking about?"

Lily scoffed and Marlene laughed outright.

"Come on," muttered Harry. "We're blocking the door. What's next?"

As the girls led the way to the next class, closely followed by the Marauders, Harry resisted the urge to look back at Malfoy. It was bad enough Malfoy had made him look weak in front of the entire class— for once, a class of strangers who didn't know him as the Boy Who Lived or the Savior of the Wizarding World— now he'd made Harry look like a Slytherin sympathizer in front of _Sirius_.

It had been hard sitting at the welcoming feast as a stranger among the Marauders. It had been uncomfortable going to breakfast and making small talk with Remus and Mary while James and Sirius bickered with Lily and Marlene. It had been surreal sitting in a classroom with them as an equal, a regular student among regular students.

It would be an early death sentence to any potential friendship with them if they thought he had already befriended the Slytherins, though. Sirius was not the kind of person to let that go, especially as a teenager.

And Harry wanted that. Even as it pained him in ways he hadn't known he could hurt, he _wanted_ to be their friend. He wanted to know James as more than just the father who had stood up to Voldemort and died. He wanted to know Sirius in his prime, loyal, happy, wild, before Azkaban had dimmed a part of his light forever.

He wanted to see Remus have fun with the friends he had spoken of so fondly, friends he had missed so terribly.

And Wormtail…

Harry eyed the stout blond boy at the rear of the procession, trying to hide the look of distaste he knew must be on his face.

Harry wished more than anything he could change who Wormtail would become, more than Sirius, more than Remus, more even than his own father.

The rat really was their friend. They included him, they listened to him, they went out of their way to reassure him when he hadn't tested high enough to continue a class with them.

Harry wished there were some way to force the rat to _remember_ that on the horrible night approaching. If he could change Wormtail, he could change _everything_.

But Dumbledore's warnings rang in Harry's ears, and he ducked his head in silence.

He couldn't change Wormtail. He couldn't change anything.

The most he could do was get to know these people while he had the chance. He and Malfoy could figure out a way to return to their own time any day now, and then the Marauders and Lily would be gone forever. Again.

He found himself trailing the loud ones— Sirius and James, Lily and Marlene— and falling into step with Remus, who was looking at him thoughtfully.

"Mal— uh, Mallory and I weren't friends," he found himself saying, almost pleading. "Back at our school, I mean. We actually spent the last six years hating each other. His family and friends, and mine…. We had very different views on the world, you know?"

"So, why do you think he defended you today?" asked Remus. His face was impassive, but it wasn't judgmental, at least. He seemed genuinely curious.

"I don't _know_ ," said Harry, throwing out his hands in frustration. "Back home, he would have enjoyed seeing me struggle! And even if he wasn't enjoying it, he's always been a cowardly little—" rat, but Remus might not take that well, given Peter's animagus form, "—ferret. I didn't think he could 'play the hero' even if he tried."

"Hm," said Remus. They walked a handful of steps in silence. "He might be missing home. Maybe you're the closest he can get. Maybe it took traveling a few thousand miles away, and bunking with Slytherins, for him to realize you're not that bad."

Harry cracked a smile. "I doubt that. But that'll be good for a laugh later."

Remus shot him a swift, wry grin. "Glad I could help."

Harry's heart felt a little lighter for the rest of the trek. Sure, maybe James was too caught up in Lily to pay him much attention, and yeah, he might have gotten off on the wrong foot with Sirius, but Harry still had Remus. It was enough.

Ever since they had met in Harry's third year, and especially later, after Sirius had fallen at the Department of Mysteries, Remus had always been enough. He wasn't Harry's father or even godfather, but he had always been a friend.

Transfiguration had Harry wishing he'd done more preparation before jumping right back into school. Taking a year off while studying little more than Defense had seen his sixth year transfiguration knowledge dry up. It was far worse than the little things he usually forgot after a long summer holiday. Instead of forgetting details and specifics, he found he had forgotten entire spells and concepts.

And McGonagall apparently intended to push forward without a backward glance.

She immediately set them up with mirrors and had them work on human-to-animal partial transfigurations.

Harry stared at his blond reflection in dread. He just barely recalled working on human transfiguration in his sixth year— changing the color of their eyebrows, the shape of their nose, etc. It had come in handy more than once when he, Ron, and Hermione had been on the run and needed disguises when they ventured into a town for supplies. But he had no recollection of the spellwork involved in human to non-human forms.

Worse, what if he tried something and reverted back to his black hair, sitting just a couple of seats away from his lookalike father?

He probably shouldn't have worried. As usual, James and Sirius made themselves the center of attention as soon as McGonagall stopped speaking.

They were so quick, Harry didn't even have time to see their wandwork in order to copy it.

"I challenge you, sir," said James imperiously, looking down his nose at Sirius, "to a duel… of _fish-hands!_ "

He raised his hands dramatically, revealing not _hands_ , but the rear halves of what looked like two trout.

He _whapped_ Sirius across the face with a fish tail.

"What!" squawked Sirius indignantly. He raised himself up and said, "I accept your challenge, Sir Flops-a-lot, because I have… _duck-hands!_ "

He revealed his own transfigured hands, which were shaped as duck heads, complete with feathers, bills, and distractingly loud quacking.

" _En garde!_ "

As they got into the strangest slap-fight Harry had ever seen in his life, McGonagall appeared over their shoulder with a deadpan stare.

"Boys," she said, and they froze as one. "Mr. Black, why don't you put your skills to use helping Mr. Lupin? And Mr. Potter, I believe Mr. Parker would appreciate your assistance."

"Yes, Professor," they said in unison. They even had the same rehearsed, contrite tone.

Harry found himself fighting a blush of embarrassment as James glanced over at him, seeing he'd made no progress at all.

"Er," said James, looking down at his fish-tail hands and then at his wand on the desktop. "How do you reckon I hold my wand to reverse this?"

"I got you, buddy," said Sirius, and he reached for his own wand, the duck head clamping it in a bright orange bill. A sweep and loop of his wand later, their hands returned to normal.

"Nice one, Pads," said James, clapping Sirius on the shoulder with a grin.

As he made his way over to Harry, Harry couldn't help but remember the first time he had visited Ollivander's as a child. Ollivander had remembered James and Lily's wands, sold so long ago.

Lily's had been made of willow and good for charms, Ollivander had said. James's had been mahogany and a powerful tool for transfiguration.

"You're very good at this," Harry found himself saying, as James and Remus traded seats.

James grinned even brighter. "Thanks! We— me and Sirius, that is— put a lot of time into human-animal transfiguration last year."

 _Right_ , Harry thought, startled by his own forgetfulness. They had learned to become animagi recently. Of course, they would have started out by experimenting with transfiguration spells such as this. And no wonder Remus was behind. He hadn't learned to become an animagus with them; his wolf was in his blood.

"So, what animal are you going for?" asked James. He lounged beside Harry, amiable and relaxed, his feet kicked out in front of him, sideways in the desk with an arm draped over the backrest.

He looked less like Harry than Harry remembered, the longer he looked, but the similarities were still enough to be distracting.

"Uh," said Harry, blanking. "Well, I guess I saw this guy turn his head into a shark's once. Maybe that?"

"Eh, if this is your first try, I'd recommend going for a mammal," said James. "That way you don't have to worry about different internal organs and such. And something proportional to the body part. And, while we're at it, choose a body part without a ton of individual bones and muscles. The less you have to account for, the easier it is. Try… your ear."

"A mammal ear," repeated Harry.

"Yes, exactly," said James. "Here, this is the wand movement, and the spell for mammals is _homo mamlia clifors_. Be sure you have it down nonverbally before the test, though. McGonagall only gives half-credit for verbal spells at the N.E.W.T. level."

A proportionally sized mammalian ear. Harry thought abruptly of Sirius changing parts of his face into Snuffles over the Christmas holiday at Grimmauld Place to amuse them when Arthur had been in the hospital. He and Tonks had gotten into a competition, which Tonks had inevitably won, having a wider variety in her arsenal, but it had been one of the few fond memories of that dismal time.

Smiling a little to himself, Harry thought of Snuffles' ear, swished and looped his wand, and said, _"Homo mamlia clifors!"_

His left ear went warm, then prickly, and then the volume of the conversations around him increased while, at the same time, the words became muffled. He reached up and felt a warm, floppy, shaggy ear. His mirror confirmed it was black and reasonably like a dog's.

"There you go!" said James, sitting up with delight. "Well done! Try the other one."

The second one turned out better than the first, looking exceptionally like Snuffles' ear.

Pleased with himself, Harry waved his wand and tried to nonverbally end the spell.

"Here, you've still got some hair in your ear—" said James, raising his own wand toward Harry's face.

The pleasure turned to unthinking, animalistic terror at the sight of a wand pointed in his face. For that second, Harry could only see Dolohov's wand, hear the jeers of the Death Eaters, screaming, _pain_ —

 _Ron_ — _no!_

Harry found himself on his feet, gasping for breath, his wand pointed at James's chest. James's wand clattered to the floor at Harry's feet, the result of an _Expelliarmus_ though Harry didn't remember casting it. The clatter echoed in the silence that had dropped over the class.

James was staring at him wide-eyed and immobile.

Harry's chair and desk had been blasted out of his way, knocking into his neighbors'.

"Mr. Parker!" said McGonagall, reacting first. "The last I checked, this was the transfiguration classroom, not the dueling club! What do you think you are doing?"

Cold sweat trickled down Harry's scalp as he struggled to breathe. He found himself swaying, the edges of his vision graying. He tasted blood in his throat as his memory screamed itself hoarse.

He couldn't _breathe_.

"Sorry, Professor," said James, a shifting movement out of the corner of Harry's eye. "I forgot— apparently Madam Pomfrey excused him from practicals for the week."

Harry couldn't see the look that crossed McGonagall's face, but her tone had gone softer when she said, "Mr. Potter, see that Mr. Parker finds his way to the infirmary, please."

Harry was leaning hard against the desk beside him, trying to stay on his feet, trying to breathe. Why… why couldn't he get Dolohov's twisted face out of his head? Why were his ears still ringing with the Death Eaters' laughter?

His body _hurt_. His throat _hurt_.

Where was Ron? Where was Hermione? Something awful was happening and he needed them, dammit.

Someone grabbed his arm, and Harry reacted violently, ripping his arm free and stumbling backwards.

He hit something hard and fell, and when he looked up, he saw someone who looked astonishingly like himself staring back, startled.

Insanely, he thought of the seven Harrys escaping Privet Drive for the last time, that stupid, stupid plan that had gotten Mad-Eye killed and could have gotten all of them killed— _Ron, Hermione_ —

Dolohov's curse of purple fire, laughter—

Parker? Someone was calling the name Parker, and everyone was looking at him. Why were these people calling him Parker?

But he got the feeling he couldn't— shouldn't— tell them his name.

He was Undesirable Number One.

His vision was tunneling. He was suffocating under the panic, under the pain. But Dolohov wouldn't let him pass out, that was too much a kindness for him.

"Oi, Scar-head, snap out of it," came a familiar drawling, snide voice.

Draco Malfoy had approached from the side and was kneeling down, a sneer on his face even though his gray eyes sparked with something like worry.

Before Harry realized what he was doing, he reached for Malfoy's sleeve and gripped the fabric as tight as he could.

Malfoy.

Malfoy wasn't Dolohov. Malfoy had saved Harry once. He hadn't identified Harry in Malfoy Manor, even though he had recognized him. He hadn't turned Harry over, even though he would have been rewarded. His life would have been assured, at least for a while. Malfoy was a scared child, a coward in the face of war, not a real Death Eater. Not a sadist.

Harry clung to his sleeve and tried to breathe, tried to ground himself in Malfoy's presence.

Malfoy might have been the biggest brat in all of Hogwarts' history, but he wasn't a threat. He didn't even register on Harry's danger-scale after having faced Voldemort and Dolohov.

Maybe he couldn't trust Malfoy, but Malfoy was _known_.

Harry held onto Malfoy's sleeve and slowly, agonizingly, started to breathe.

"I'll take him, Professor," said Malfoy, and then he was urging Harry to stand.

Harry followed him up only because he couldn't force himself to let go of that sleeve yet. He needed it, or he'd fall again, back into that blackness in his mind where there was only pain and laughter and purple fire.

He was aware of movement, and then a draft of cooler air as they went from classroom to corridor.

Then Malfoy said, sounding both angry and shaken, "What the hell was that, Potter? McGonagall was right; that was a transfiguration lesson, not a free-for-all! And I thought you _wanted_ to see your parents. Why would you attack them? Bloody _hell_. And what are you doing, clinging to my robes like a child? Let go. What is wrong with you?"

Harry didn't answer but, as Malfoy shook his arm with the sleeve Harry was clutching, he forced his fingers to release one-by-one.

He took a deep, shuddering breath, and then another. Empty-handed, ungrounded, he fumbled in his pockets for something to hold.

His wand.

It didn't have all the nicks and bumps it would gain by the time he went hunting for Horcruxes, but it was still his holly and phoenix feather wand. It was still his.

He held it like a lifeline.

They had made it halfway to the hospital wing before Harry could respond.

"Sorry," he muttered, unable to look Malfoy in the eye. The full understanding of what he'd done hit him, and he wished he could sink into the floor. He had attacked his father in a classroom of children and then clung to Draco Malfoy for protection like a maiden in a bodice-ripper novel. His face felt unbearably hot. "I don't— uh— I don't need the hospital wing. I'm fine now. Uh, sorry."

Malfoy stared at him like he had grown a second head.

"Yes," Malfoy said slowly, enunciating clearly as if Harry were a very stupid child, "you do. You've gone absolutely nutters, _again_. Surely Madam Pomfrey will have something to set you right. What did she give you last time when you were going on about Dumbledore being naked in King's Cross Station?"

"I wasn't— that wasn't what I said at all!"

"No? I forget. It was all nonsense, anyway, what does it matter?"

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose.

Why, dear God, _why_ had he grabbed onto Malfoy like that?

Already, his thought processes from his panic were fading from memory like a bad dream.

Why couldn't it have been anyone else? Literally anyone.

It would have been painfully awkward, sure, but at least it wouldn't have been _Malfoy_.

Marlene McKinnon had said she owed him. Where had _she_ been?

"Look," said Harry once he had gotten control of himself again. He still felt cold and shaken, but he continued firmly, "I'm not going to the hospital wing. Madam Pomfrey doesn't have anything for me. You just go back to class. I'm gonna… I'm gonna go back to the library for a bit."

He wanted to say he was going to the dorm to take a nap, but he knew sleep would be his enemy now, memories and nightmares waltzing hand-in-hand behind his eyelids.

His best bet was to distract himself for the time being.

Malfoy continued staring at him. His mouth worked silently for a moment, starting, stopping, and starting again. Then he just shook his head and dragged his hand through his too-long hair.

"Bloody Gryffindors," he muttered. "Fine. I'll come with you, make sure you don't attack any passing first years on the way. Unstable sodding skiver…."

He continued muttering uncomplimentary things under his breath as they changed directions toward the library, but Harry ignored him.

He gripped his wand so hard his nails dug bleeding crescents into his palm around it.

He could breathe, he reminded himself.

He was in the past, and once he helped Malfoy find a way back to their time, he could move on. He could move on to parents who remembered him, to his real godfather and friend. To Ron and Hermione, who at least were together beyond the veil.

He wasn't done yet, but the end was in sight. He could do it.

…

Potter had a break after Transfiguration, but Draco had to leave for Alchemy. Draco had been thrilled to enroll when he'd first seen it. There had never been enough interest among the other students in all four of his last years at Hogwarts, but these students in the past had better taste than his peers, it seemed. Now, his excitement was subdued in the face of Potter's breakdown.

He tried to put it from his mind, but he kept returning to that look on Potter's face. It had been horrid, nothing but panic and desperation and… and that was not the Potter Draco knew. That was not Dumbledore's reckless golden boy, the schoolboy who could do no wrong in the eyes of the professors. That was not his Quidditch rival, not the second coming of Godric Bloody Gryffindor who had an undeniable 'saving people thing' and who flew like a bloody bird.

But maybe that was what the Savior of the Wizarding World looked like. He had been gone for a while between the end of their sixth year and that final duel with the Dark Lord.

Maybe he'd had to change to become the person the wizarding world needed him to be.

Draco was uncomfortably aware that he had little to no idea what Potter had been up to while Draco attended their seventh year at Hogwarts. School that year had been far from pleasant, even though the Slytherins were favored over the other Houses. It had been a shock even to their sensibilities to get a taste of what the world would be like under the Dark Lord's rule. It was a lot harsher even to purebloods, and watching his classmates from every House crumble under unmerciful, never-ending punishments had changed something in Draco.

He'd gone through his own hell over the past year. He hadn't spared much time to wonder over Potter's.

He was starting to wish he had.

Every time Draco or Severus had insulted his father in previous years, Harry had rallied to the man's defense like James Potter was some kind of hero. No matter how many detentions Snape had given or how many points he took, Potter had always stood up for his father's honor.

And now he had attacked him.

Something was very wrong.

Sure, Potter Senior looked like a downright idiot, dumping raw eggs on the whole Slytherin table and getting into a fish-hands slapfest with his equally idiotic friend, but Draco couldn't see why Harry wouldn't like him. Harry was, in Draco's not so humble opinion, just as idiotic.

Draco made it to the Alchemy classroom in a pensive mood. He sat next to Severus and was rewarded with suspicious, furrowed eyebrows and silence.

Severus-the-teenager was a hard kid to get to know, though Draco could hardly blame him. Even after a single night in the Slytherin dungeons, Draco could tell Severus was an outcast. Elodie Greengrass had been the only one to speak to him with any civility. Their dormmates were crude and mocking, and it was clear they found his status as a half-blood something to torment him over. The other years actively avoided him as if he were contagious, and Severus made no attempts to ingratiate himself with any of them.

By seventh year, he was probably used to it.

Still, Draco didn't give a rat's ass about any of the others.

He took the bed next to Severus's in the dorms, he took a seat at the breakfast table next to Severus, and now for the third time, he took the desk next to Severus's in class.

They sat next to each other and listened to Professor Edison in silence.

Draco was fine with that.

After class, one of the Gryffindor girls— not one of the McKinnons or the redhead with Harry's eyes, Draco couldn't remember her name— came up to him before he could finish packing his bag.

She shot a nervous glance past him towards Rosier and Mulciber and shifted weight from foot to foot.

"Um, Mr. Mallory?" she said quietly, clearly trying not to draw their attention.

She had it anyway. Rosier and Mulciber were watching her closely and whispering to each other with rather lewd-looking smirks.

Draco sent them a judicious sneer before returning to the Gryffindor girl.

"Yes?"

"My friends and I were just wondering," she said. "Is Harry okay? Is he still in the hospital wing?"

"Po—Parker is fine," said Draco shortly, finishing with his bag and standing. "If he's not at lunch, you will probably find him in the library. If you'll excuse me?"

"Oh! Yes. Um, thank you." The girl scurried off.

There were no other Gryffindors in Alchemy. Draco thought privately she had been very brave to come up to him as she had without any friends for support, especially with the way Rosier and Mulciber were looking at her.

He wondered for the second time in two days if it wouldn't be so bad to be sorted into Gryffindor after all.

 _Get a grip, Malfoy_ , he told himself, so stunned at his own traitorous thoughts that he almost tripped over a chair. _Potter's insanity is rubbing off on you. Don't think such ludicrous things_.

He shook himself, shuddered briefly at the thought of _red and gold everything_ , and hurried to lunch, mustering as much dignity and impassivity as he could.

Nobody else needed to know he might-have-maybe-a-little-bit considered the Sorting Hat's offer... just for a second.

…

Sirius called a Marauders meeting in the bathroom of their dorm, since Harry Parker could walk into the dorm at any moment.

It was well after dinner, and, as far as they knew, he was still in the library.

The library was an odd place to be on the very first evening of term, James would admit, but he still felt a twinge of guilt over his role in Harry's… distress… during Transfiguration, so he didn't want to judge him something as horrible as 'bookish' just yet.

Remus was all the seventh year Gryffindor boys could handle. Anymore bookishness now, and they might as well cancel the graduating class altogether.

No, it just wouldn't do. James was sure Harry would get over it soon, once he was feeling better.

"So," said Sirius, lounging against the door jamb like a damned underwear model. He was fully dressed, but his robes were open, his tie loosened to the point of falling off, and the buttons of his shirt were undone almost to his navel.

James leaned back against the tank of the toilet, which he had claimed like a throne as the undisputed leader of the Marauders.

Remus was perched on the edge of the tub, while Peter sat on the floor between his and James's feet.

"What do we think of Parker?" asked Sirius. There was a cold, calculating glint in his eye that always made James uncomfortable.

"I like him," said James, purely to forestall whatever Sirius had prepared against Parker. "The girls have adopted him like a puppy, and you know they're canny. They'd be the first to turn on him if he were a bad sort."

"I agree," said Remus. "He seems… out of place, but I have hopes for him. I think he's maybe just missing home."

Peter didn't say anything.

James understood.

Though Harry looked at them all with a strange intensity, it was different with Peter. Everything about Harry's aura, powerful and bright while directed at James, Sirius, and Remus, became closed off and cold when he looked at Peter.

It had taken some time for them to figure out what was different, but once Peter had pointed it out with all the acumen of a prey animal, it was undeniable.

Harry didn't like Peter at all, and they had no idea why.

He had only just met them.

"He's a tight-laced rule humper who's friends with a Slytherin," said Sirius without hesitating.

"We don't know he's a rule humper," said James, rolling his neck to release some of the tension in his muscles. "He hasn't done anything yet."

"You saw him at the welcoming feast," said Sirius, suspicion and distrust flaring in his blue eyes like unholy fire. "He had no appreciation for our hard work! He looked _offended_ when we egged the Slytherins!"

"I think he might be friends with that Mallory," James admitted reluctantly, "but that doesn't mean he's going to run to McGonagall on us all year. As long as we leave Mallory out of the worst of it…."

"I don't think that's quite it," said Remus, once James had trailed off. He looked thoughtful. "He said he and Mallory weren't friends. I rather got the impression they were like you and Snape, actually." He nodded at James, who scowled in a Pavlovian response at Snape's name.

"They sure seemed chummy in Defense when Mallory stepped in like Harry was a bloody damsel in distress," said Sirius relentlessly, "and when Harry grabbed onto him like a harlot in Transfiguration."

"Easy," said Remus quietly, warningly, not looking up from a spot on the floor.

Sirius wilted, giving James the chance to respond.

"Harry clearly has issues Mallory knows about," he said in his most confident, placating leader voice. "And Ilvermorny doesn't have a Slytherin house. Whatever Mallory is, I don't think he'll be as easy to bunch in with that lot. Even if they're not friends, maybe Mallory is just a decent sort helping a classmate."

Sirius and Peter both made faces at the idea of a decent Slytherin.

James could tell he was losing them.

"No, James is onto something," said Remus quietly, before James could come up with a defense. He was still looking at the floor with a faraway, pensive gaze. "I think Harry must have some sort of medical issue, maybe even something like— like mine. He's seen Madam Pomfrey before term even started, like I had to my first year. All last night and today, I could… I could smell healing potions on him. And did you notice how stiffly he moved whenever he had to sit down or stand up? It reminded me of last year when— when you broke a couple of my ribs, remember?"

James winced and said immediately, "Sorry, again, Moony, you know I didn't—"

"It's alright, quite alright," said Remus dismissively, as he always did.

It was one of their first jaunts on the full moon after the long summer break, and Padfoot had been too wild, too excited. Remus had been feeding off that energy in his werewolf state, getting more and more ferocious, until their play-fights had turned downright vicious. James's threat of antlers hadn't driven them apart as it normally did, and, once Moony had gotten hold of Padfoot's throat and wouldn't let go, James had been forced to kick.

James knew he would remember the sound of breaking one of his best friend's ribs for the rest of his life.

Just as he would remember trying desperately to heal Sirius back in their dorm, too afraid of getting caught as unregistered animagi, too afraid of being forced to abandon Remus on full moons, to go to Madam Pomfrey. There had been a lot of blood.

"But… the full moon isn't until next week," said Wormtail, breaking the macabre train of James's thoughts. Wormtail fidgeted with the hem of his robes as they turned to look at him. "He can't have lycanthropy. If he went to see Madam Pomfrey yesterday… well, the last full moon was over two weeks ago. He wouldn't still be injured. Remus heals pretty fast. Right?"

"Right," said James encouragingly. "So, it's not lycanthropy, but maybe some other curse—"

" _Dark_ curse," muttered Sirius, but James ignored him.

"Look," he said bracingly, flailing his hands for effect. "It's just been one day. Let's not judge our new roomie just yet, alright? We'll keep an eye on him, make sure he's well. We'll go light on the pranks, focus on our N.E.W.T.s, and see if he comes around. And in the meantime, we have a map to finish. Yeah?"

Remus nodded, and Peter quickly said, "Yeah!" But Sirius didn't look pleased.

He only gave a spiky nod, not meeting James's eye, and pushed off from the doorframe.

Sirius led the way out.

* * *

...

TBC...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! And a big thanks to Stoneage_Woman for beta-ing!


	5. Respect

* * *

_Scrimgeour: "It's time you learned some respect!"_

_Harry: "It's time you earned it."_

― J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

* * *

**Chapter 5: Respect**

Draco could no longer sleep in the company of others, and that all his dormmates were present or future Death Eaters did not help matters.

Seventh year in the Slytherin dorms— his first time around— had been hell. The son of a disgraced Death Eater, he had been a prime target for the others to step on in order to move up the hierarchy. Crabbe especially had shoved Draco's face in the dirt to curry favor with the Carrows, who had been impressed with his brutality in performing curses in Dark Arts class.

The attention hadn't suited Crabbe. He was the best at performing the Cruciatus Curse in their year, and he made sure all the terrified lower years knew it. He had taken aim at Draco more than once for trying to reign him in, but Draco had spent a whole summer and Christmas break hosting the Dark Lord at Malfoy Manor and was usually quick enough to avoid it.

Goyle had learned to duck his head and stay out of it, unwilling to take sides between them.

Nott hadn't had Crabbe's raw ferocity with curses, but he was far cleverer; and Zabini, while not Death Eater material, had been nothing but a through-and-through opportunistic _ass_ since first year. Between them and Crabbe, Draco had learned to place wards on his bed curtains and check for tampering every night.

He was amused, and a little saddened, to see his teenage godfather doing the same.

The Slytherin boys in the '70s were much the same as the ones Draco had left in the '90s.

He had been grilled, all under the veneer of politeness, on his blood status and family ties his very first night. It had been a tricky dance for Draco to navigate. He needed enough connections to make staying in the Slytherin dorms livable, but he had to be especially careful not to drop names of wizards who could be easily reached and questioned.

He'd had to reduce his status to _half-blood_.

He, Draco Malfoy, a _half-blood_.

But the pureblood lines were too well documented, too well known to sneak in without revealing himself, and so he gritted his teeth, bowed his head, and reminded himself he'd asked for this. He'd wanted to be with Severus just a little longer. He'd wanted to see just a little more of his poorly used godfather before he returned to his time and Severus was gone forever.

And so Draco smiled politely, pretended he didn't notice the first few times they tried to get into his locked and warded possessions, and kept his focus split between Severus and finding a way back to his own time.

Therefore, Draco noticed when Severus started relaxing during the second week of term.

Draco knew Severus's childhood hadn't been a happy one, though he had never bothered to ask for details. It soon became clear, however, that it took time for him to open himself back up to Hogwarts after spending time at home. It took the first week for the Hogwarts food to put a little color back in his cheeks, then the second week for him to stop looking so emaciated. It took days before he spoke to anyone, and then a full week before he spoke in more than monosyllables.

The older Slytherins seemed to know to leave him alone during that time, but Draco didn't appreciate Potter's little group of Gryffindors throwing insults and a few hexes in the corridors between classes. Potter was never with them those times— he seemed to have been adopted by the Gryffindor girls like a delicate unicorn foal— but Draco couldn't help but feel a little resentful.

Potter had _defeated the Dark Lord_. Couldn't he control a couple of bullies in his own House?

In the second week of term, Severus stopped casting wards on his bed and all his possessions. He had gotten comfortable enough with Draco's presence to do homework with him in the common room and had even muttered a dry but surprisingly filthy joke under his breath during their potions class earlier that day. The older Severus would never have referenced those body parts engaged in those activities within Draco's hearing before.

Draco was delighted.

He was less pleased with his own ongoing insomnia, but he was glad _this_ Severus, at least, could sleep in peace. This Severus hadn't gone through a war yet.

Draco diligently kept up his wards, traps, and protective charms.

It was late in that second week of term that Severus dropped, exhausted, into his bed and then let out an ear-piercing screech, popping back to his feet as if his bed had been a massive spring.

Draco, who had been reading in his own bed, dropped his book and was on his feet, wand in hand, in an instant.

"What is it, what happened?" he demanded.

"YOU— THEY— WHAT— _POTTER!"_

Severus had shouted Potter's name so many times during their years at Hogwarts, it took Draco a moment to remember this Potter was Potter Senior, _James_.

"What did he—?" began Draco, looking at Severus's bed for the source of the problem.

The sheets had been rumpled by Severus's less-than-graceful fall and then exit, so Draco didn't immediately notice the wet streaks.

He was confused how Severus's bed could have gotten wet, and _why_ , when Mulciber walked in, drawn by the shouting. Mulciber stopped dead, took in the scene, sniffed the air, and then abruptly howled in laughter.

"Hey! Hey, guys!" Mulciber shouted over his shoulder, toward the common room. "Guys! _Snivellus just wet the bed! He's pissed himself!_ "

Mulciber dropped to his knees he was laughing so hard, clinging to the doorframe to support himself.

Draco gaped, but he too could smell it. It was the smell of urine, wafting from Severus's wet bed.

Footsteps came pounding up the corridor between the dorms.

Severus and Draco stared at one another.

Draco's mind went blank. He had no idea what to say, what to do.

 _His_ dormmates had tried to torture and maim him in his sleep. He couldn't even fathom them doing something as— as _juvenile_ as pissing in his bed.

He didn't know what his face looked like, but it must have been discouraging.

Severus's cheeks colored even as he scowled his most dire scowl, and he flew past their beds toward the bathroom. He slammed the door shut behind himself hard enough to rattle stone, and there was the distinct click of a lock.

Draco found his voice when the other Slytherins— God, fifth, sixth, _and_ seventh years had all come running— burst into laughter and jeers in the doorway.

"Don't be idiots!" snapped Draco with as much disdain as he could muster. "It was those bloody Gryffindors, the— what do they call themselves?— the Marauders. Snape had barely sat down."

But they weren't listening.

Draco repeated himself, louder, but it didn't do more than get a few taunts thrown in his direction instead. He considered pulling out his wand to jinx them, but the younger years were already moving on, talking animatedly amongst themselves, and really, how many would Draco have to jinx to keep it from spreading throughout the school in a matter of hours? He doubted he could get them all before Rosier Stunned him or worse.

In the end, Draco sat back down on his bed and stared over at Severus's empty one and the locked bathroom door, feeling more useless than he had felt since returning to the past.

He had been getting comfortable in Hogwarts, too, he realized.

It was so easy to get lost in the everyday hustle and bustle of classes, of research, of the drama of teenagers.

The war hadn't touched this Hogwarts like it had his own. Everything here was so easy, so simple, so safe.

It was easy to forget he was nothing but a coward when push came to shove. It was easy to forget he was useless, nothing more than a scared little kid in the face of the real world and its problems.

When the Dark Lord had tasked Draco with killing Dumbledore, he'd known it had been little more than his own death sentence. He'd been given a year so that his parents would agonize over him, all the while knowing he was doomed.

And then Severus had taken that burden from him. When Draco had been too spineless to cast the Killing Curse, Severus had done it for him. He'd shredded his soul so that Draco wouldn't have to.

And Draco couldn't even save him from a stupid schoolyard bully.

Draco clenched his wand until his knuckles were bloodless.

Potter, Severus had said. Probably Black, too. They were never far from one another.

They weren't supposed to change the past, but this one little thing Draco could do. It was a stupid little tiff between Slytherins and Gryffindors, nothing new. Surely, confronting Potter Senior and Black wouldn't alter history.

Surely, Draco could do one thing right for his godfather.

He wasn't clear on how to exact his revenge just yet, but he trusted his instincts, his cunning, to have something by dawn.

Wordlessly, he cast a cleaning charm on Severus's sheets and pulled his own curtains closed. He sat awake, pretending he was reading into the early hours of the morning.

…

Draco didn't have anything by dawn.

He'd thought of his mixed success with pranks in the past— dressing up as dementors for that Quidditch game in third year, the Potter Stinks badges in fourth— but nothing along those lines seemed good enough as revenge against the Marauders.

He had gleaned over the past two weeks that the oddly-named gang was something like the predecessor to the Weasley twins in his time: Pranks were their bread and butter. The rest of the school knew to stay on their good side lest they become the next targets of a well-aimed Levitation Charm or bucket of hippogriff dung. Moreover, the rest of the school _worshipped_ them. Potter Senior and Black in particular got admiring glances from their peers for just about everything.

Draco… could reluctantly admit he'd been more of an immature brat with his forays into practical jokes in the past. The Marauders made it into an art. Their skill with magic, even for seventh years, was impressive. Their confidence and camaraderie made it hard not to envy them.

Draco and Severus entered the great hall for breakfast that morning, Draco still in turmoil. He spotted the seventh year Gryffindors at once. Potter Senior and Black were in the center of the table, the center of attention, as usual, while Harry sat farther down the table toward the end, between the young Professor Lupin and his redheaded mother. They were having a much quieter conversation, more suited to the early hour. There were dark bags under his eyes, Draco noticed, much like his own.

Draco considered casting an invisibility spell on Potter Senior's and Black's robes as they passed so they'd find themselves in their undergarments in the middle of the great hall at the height of breakfast hour, but even Draco knew how that would go: Potter Senior would no doubt be surprised at first, but then he would grin that idiotic grin so unlike Harry's, strike a shameless pose like a witch in a nudie magazine, and ask Evans ( _that_ was her name; Severus had mentioned it several times), "Like anything you see?"

The berk's arrogance knew no bounds; of that, Severus had been entirely straightforward.

And Black… Black could probably just raise an eyebrow at the nearest witch and get a date on the spot. Salazar, the girls would probably be _fighting_ over him. Did the Gryffindor common room have a _gym_ or something? It wasn't even funny how fit that young man looked.

Draco didn't know what to do. The Marauders had spent six years building up a following in the school, becoming idols, while Draco was the new kid. And Severus had spent six years establishing himself as an oddball outcast. They didn't have a leg to stand on.

Even if Draco stripped Potter Senior and Black of their robes, he recognized he was more likely to get a detention than vindictive-sweet revenge.

Silently, he walked toward the Slytherin table, fuming and ashamed.

Then Sirius Black caught sight of them. He lifted his head, made a show of sniffing the air like a dog, and said, "What's that smell? It smells like someone pissed their pants. Oh— hi, Snivellus!"

Potter Senior barked a laugh. "Getting a bit old for that, aren't you? You know, blokes our age are supposed to have a _different_ kind of wet dream, but I s'pose you're not there yet."

Severus whipped out his wand, snarling, but that was when Evans caught sight of them from the far end of the table.

"Hey!" she called sternly. "Whatever you boys are arguing about now, cut it out! I'm not cleaning up another of your messes this early in the morning! Don't make me take House points!"

She sounded so much like a mother, even Draco felt a pang of sadness that Harry had never known her.

It passed, though, when Black grinned a cold little grin and told Severus, "You heard the Lily-flower. Move on, before even the _Muggle-born_ who won't have you bitch-slaps you back into place. Go on."

He made a dismissive, shoo-ing gesture towards the Slytherin table.

"How dare you?" hissed Severus, white and shaking with rage. "I _know_ it was you two who did it! Although how you got into the Slytherin dorms… always sneaking around… you _must_ have found a way…. If you ever—"

"Run along," said Potter Senior, and he had lost the laughter in his face.

"Yeah," said Sirius, "or maybe another great black dog will find his way to pissing all over your bed."

Potter Senior turned a pleasantly surprised look on Black. "No! Did you really—?"

And Black nodded, and the two high-fived over the table.

And Draco saw red.

 _His_ Severus had revealed that Black was an unregistered animagus after the Dark Lord's return. Black was a large, shaggy black dog.

He didn't know why, in that moment of blind rage, why it was worse to image a dog willfully peeing on Severus's bed rather than a bratty teenager casting a rude spell with a wand, but it suddenly made all the difference.

Draco whipped out his own wand and, with cold fury, conjured his school-standard wizard's hat from the Slytherin dorm. He snatched it out of the air, stalked past a bewildered Severus and straight up to the center of the Gryffindor table.

He threw the hat on the table directly in front of Sirius Black.

Black had stopped laughing. He looked at the wizard's hat in astonishment. Then, when he looked back at Draco, there was a calculating gleam in his eye.

"I challenge you," said Draco, "to a duel. Wands only. Midnight. You choose the location."

"You're mistaken," said Black, surprisingly soft. "The challenged has the right to choose the weapons, not you."

"So you _do_ know some proper etiquette," sneered Draco. "Your family wasn't totally remiss in raising you, _Black_."

The look on Sirius's face was ugly.

Potter Senior, Severus, and the few students around them had gone silent, staring in shock at the serious turn of events.

"If you don't want wands, send the change along with your second," continued Draco coldly. "And, as you know the castle better than I do, as a new transfer, I _presume_ you will allow me the small courtesy of switching who chooses the time versus the location."

"Fine," spat Sirius. He picked up the hat and held it up like a flag. "Granted. I accept your challenge, Mallory. Wands. Midnight. The Forbidden Forest behind Greenhouse Six. James is my second."

"Snape is mine," said Draco, not even glancing back at Severus to know he'd accept. Any chance to curse Potter Senior or Black, he knew he'd be on board.

"Contact?" asked Black.

Draco opened his mouth to snap no, that he didn't want their seconds to try to talk either of them out of it for any condition, but he stopped. He smiled his own chilly little smile. "Yes," he said. "I will accept your _public_ apology to Snape as satisfaction. Be sure to have your second send it along as soon as you get cold feet."

Black looked like he didn't know what to make of Draco, like he'd never seen anything like him before. Then he threw his head back and barked out a laugh. "You've got the language and the attitude of a pureblood," Black said, still chuckling, "but you have _no idea_ who my family is, do you?"

Draco wanted to argue that of course he did; his mother was a Black. But Draco Mallory had been in America for the past decade. He couldn't claim to know British society as well as he did.

"My father taught me dueling etiquette as soon as I could hold a _toy wand_ ," Black continued mercilessly. "My training partners were Bellatrix, Andromeda, and Narcissa Black— now Malfoy. And let me tell you, my family didn't get the name Black because we teach our kids so much Light magic from a young age. Get it?"

Draco got it. And he was starting to regret acting so impulsively.

Anyone who grew up training to duel with Bellatrix Lestrange, in the ancient Black household, could not possibly be an easy foe.

But he tilted his chin up and continued sneering. "And you know nothing about me, either, do you?"

Black had the nerve to roll his eyes as if it didn't matter. He said, "If you want contact, we'll need thirds. Our seconds won't get along long enough to pass a message. HEY MOONY, YOU'RE MY THIRD!" He shouted down the table.

"Oh, God," they heard Lupin's response, full of dread. "Third _what?_ You haven't been experimenting with those plants again, have you?"

"Get your delectable ass down here and find out!" Black called back, wise enough not to announce their intentions to duel where the professors could hear.

Draco faltered. Duels barely required seconds, and that was mostly a formality. He hadn't considered needing a third. He hadn't exactly been subtle about his lack of respect for the other Slytherins and their egos. The only one he could think of was Elodie Greengrass, but he doubted she'd be willing to duel a werewolf for him if it came down to it. She was civil, she wasn't a saint.

Severus hovered closer and murmured where only Draco could hear, "Regulus Black. He's a sixth year, but he's good. Not quite up to Bellatrix's level, but enough to wipe the floor with Lupin. And he'd enjoy a go at his disgraced brother."

Oh, that was… that was uncomfortable, Draco thought, eyebrows raising. Then again, there was a reason Severus got to be the Head of Slytherin House. Manipulating family politics to get him a willing third… that was good.

Draco opened his mouth, turning back to the elder Black to tell him, when he saw that Harry had accompanied Lupin down the table to see what was going on. As they leaned in to listen to Black and Potter Senior explain it in excitable whispers, Lupin's face grew exasperated. He rolled his eyes to the enchanted ceiling multiple times as if to ask for patience from a higher power.

Harry's face, however, went slack with shock and then dark with fury.

He pulled his wand on Black.

"You did _what?_ " Harry demanded.

"Whoa, what's your issue, Parker?" said Black, frowning and leaning away from the wand tip. "It was a joke!"

Harry's wand hand was shaking. Something tumultuous crashed behind his green eyes. He seemed to be struggling, but Draco didn't know if he was trying to hold himself back from cursing Black or trying to hold himself _together_.

"That's not a joke," said Harry lowly, from between clenched teeth.

Black was eyeing his trembling wand with worry.

Harry hadn't exactly portrayed himself as stable these past two weeks.

"That was cruel," Harry continued, just as lowly, "and he didn't deserve that. Severus Snape is a good man."

Draco had no idea who was more shocked to hear those words coming from Harry Potter's mouth: himself, a teenage Severus who had scarcely met Harry before, or Black, who looked unspeakably betrayed by his fellow Gryffindor.

Harry looked at Draco with fiery determination. "I'm your third."

Draco's eyes widened.

"But Regulus—" began Severus.

"No," said Draco. "I'll take Po-uh-Parker." To Harry, he said, "You're, ah, sure about this? I mean, I know he's…." He shot a sideways, uncomfortable glance at Black, whom he knew was Harry's godfather.

Harry glanced at Black again, and Draco didn't imagine the look of disappointment and hurt in his face.

"Yeah," said Harry, moving away from the Marauders. "You'll— uh— have to remind me what thirds do. We never really got that far at— at our school. And I don't know etiquette like you purebloods…."

"What?" exploded Draco, before he could stop himself. "But you dueled the—"

"It wasn't the same," Harry cut across him, before he could say something incriminating. He shifted awkwardly and looked away from them all. His breathing had sped up, become shallow. "Fighting for your life… for your friends' lives… isn't the same as a duel."

"Bloody hell," said Black, looking between Draco and Harry in disbelief. "What have you two been up to, then?"

"Shut up, Sirius," said Harry in a cutting tone, not missing a beat, though he grabbed onto the table as if to steady himself. "I just… I can't even look at you right now."

"Hey!" protested Black, looking both confused and offended, while Potter Senior said,

"Don't talk to Padfoot like that!"

"And you," Harry said to Potter Senior, with such a look of _hurt_ , "I expected better…. You're seventeen, not a kid anymore…."

Harry shook his head, screwing his eyes shut hard, while Potter Senior looked truly baffled.

Harry said to Draco, "I'm gonna… I'm gonna go. We'll… talk later."

And he fled.

Guilt and concern hit Draco in equal measure.

Potter was having another breakdown. Because of _him_.

It would have been simpler if Draco had just spelled Potter Senior and Black's robes transparent. _That_ was just a joke.

Instead, Draco had put Harry in that impossible position where he couldn't "do the right thing" and stay on good terms with his family at the same time.

Draco knew intimately well how terrible a position that was, and Harry was far more of a righteous, martyring bastard than he was.

Putting every ounce of bitterness he had into his voice, Draco said to Black, "We'll be in touch."

He and Severus turned on their heel and resumed their walk to the Slytherin table.

They sat down to curious stares from their housemates, who were no doubt wondering what had taken them so long at the Gryffindor table, before some even less tactful morons saw that it was Snape and then pointed and laughed.

"Ignore them," Draco muttered to Severus, settling in to fill his plate. "We'll either have the satisfaction of hexing Black's face off or his groveling apology by this time tomorrow."

Severus shot him a narrow, thoughtful look and didn't speak immediately. He filled his own plate of breakfast food before he finally said, "You didn't need to do that. It was foolish. The Blacks are well-known for their dueling prowess and powerful Dark magic."

Draco knew.

His mother didn't like to fight. She had even given Draco her wand during that final battle at Hogwarts just to keep him safe.

But great Salazar, _could_ she fight.

Lucius, like all pureblood fathers, had taught Draco dueling etiquette from an early age.

Narcissa had taught Draco how to win.

She had never trained him until the summer after the Dark Lord returned, content to let Lucius and Draco enjoy time male bonding, probably convinced Draco would never need to seriously duel anyone in his life. When the Dark Lord returned, however, she had taken him out into the garden and proceeded to scare decades off his life.

Narcissa Black Malfoy didn't like to fight, but she was damn sure Bellatrix's sister.

"I know," said Draco, taking a bite of bacon. "But I couldn't let that stand. What he did was despicable. And I meant what I said about him not knowing _me_ , either."

"Parker called you a pureblood," said Severus, as neat and pointed as a needle.

Draco almost choked on his bacon.

With an effort, he forced it down and swallowed hard, taking a long swig of juice to wash it down. When he was able, he said, trying to affect disinterest even as his eyes watered, "He only meant I was raised in the Wizarding world. He wasn't. I'm not sure he understands the difference between pureblood and half-blood, honestly. It was different at Ilvermorny."

"Hm," said Severus. He took a drink of his juice, apparently content to let the subject drop, but Draco caught that dark, gimlet gaze on him more than once during the rest of the meal.

Draco knew he was holding onto his other questions, waiting for the opportune moment.

Draco had no idea how he would answer.

He himself had no idea why Harry had said _Severus Snape is a good man_.

And he had no idea why Harry Fucking Potter would side with _him_ over his own father and godfather, even if they were stupid gits.

…

Remus found Harry in the library after lunch. He was sitting at a table by himself with a large, dense-looking old book on… the lettering was too small for Remus to see from a distance, even with his slightly enhanced werewolf vision.

Harry was tapping and rubbing the table next to the book, his gaze a million miles away. He did that a lot, both the fidgeting and the thousand-yard stare. He didn't seem to be aware of either habit, and Remus had been too polite to bring it up. Whatever issue Harry was struggling with, whatever he had needed healing potions and the first week off magic in class for, it was serious, Remus could tell.

Harry was far more closed off than any of the Marauders, including even Remus himself, and getting to a peaceful acquaintanceship with him hadn't been easy.

He was polite and quiet, and he mostly spent his free time with the girls or in the library, but there were sticky moments whenever he interacted with the Marauders either in class or in the dorms.

They could be joking around, throwing around some harmless banter, and Harry would slowly relax with them. It would feel like progress. And then the smallest comment would set him off— a comment on the Chudley Cannons' chances that season, Peter wondering if Li Mei Chang would go to the first Hogsmeade weekend with him, Sirius talking about repairing that damned motorbike he'd bought over the summer from some neighboring Muggles, James bemoaning how his parents were still suffocating him at seventeen with their twice weekly letters, Remus muttering darkly about having to learn the Patronus Charm even though less than half the wizarding community was capable of producing a corporeal Patronus….

Remus had learned to listen for the unsteady breathing, to watch for the tapping or grasping fingers that warned of an impending panic attack.

When he saw those warning signs, he redirected conversations as quickly as he could. How much it helped, and if any of the others noticed, he couldn't tell.

Now, he made sure to telegraph his approach, stomping louder than he would normally walk, coughing as if to clear his throat, rustling in his bag and crinkling parchment. Those who surprised Harry tended to get a wand in their face or, in some cases, Disarmed before they could even blink.

He was very good at Expelliarmus.

That was useful information to have if they were going to duel.

"Hullo, Harry," he said. "Mind if I sit down?"

"Of course not," said Harry, pushing out the chair opposite him for Remus.

Remus sat down and tried very hard not to look guilty when Madam Pince stalked by. There was no way she knew it was him under the Invisibility Cloak checking books in the Restricted Section for their map, right?

"I suppose Sirius sent you?" asked Harry glumly.

"Not so much," said Remus, giving Harry a wan smile. "He's never going to apologize, not to Snape. Uh— I should mention that's what seconds and thirds do in duels. Er, bearing in mind I'm not from a Founding Family or anything… we're supposed to see if there's a way to talk this out before letting it end in bloodshed, from what I understand."

"Ah," said Harry, with a nod. "Well, in that case…. If it were just Mallory and Black, maybe. They, uh, have a little common ground. But not if Snape's involved. Mallory and Snape… they're thick as thieves."

"Do they know each other from childhood?" asked Remus, cocking his head to the side in curiosity.

"Huh?"

"It's just, you and Mallory just transferred," said Remus, unsure where Harry had gotten lost. "Why would they be so close unless they had known each other already?"

"Oh," said Harry. "No. Uh, Mallory just works fast, is all."

That was a strange response, but Remus accepted it with an only slightly delayed grunt.

They sat in silence for a few moments. Remus decided to pull out his potions essay to get started on, even though it had just been assigned that morning.

Eventually, Harry asked, "Does he hate me now? Sirius, I mean."

He sounded so vulnerable, even though he and Sirius were hardly the best of friends.

Remus looked up from his essay and frowned. "No," he said slowly. "I think he's… confused. We all are, honestly. It's rather unheard of for a Gryffindor to side with a Slytherin on something like this. You might have noticed our Houses have a bit of a rivalry."

"But what he did," said Harry, with an edge of desperation, "it was _horrible_. Why would anyone…?"

"Ah," said Remus, looking down at his potions essay as if it held all the answers. "You were, ah… bullied? At your old school?"

"No," said Harry, flushing. Then, "In primary school. Muggle, I mean. My cousin…" He trailed off.

"I won't pretend Sirius was in the right," said Remus. "He didn't tell any of us about it before he went and did it. But you've got to understand, the way they are, if Sirius hadn't done that, Snape would have started it with a hex in the hallway or a smear rumor started about, you know, whatever he thought would embarrass James or Sirius at the moment. They're not friends. James and Snape are fighting over Lily's affection, you _must_ have noticed, and Sirius hates Slytherin with a passion. All his family's been Sorted there, and they've disowned him for being a Gryffindor. It's complicated. I'm sorry you got caught up in it."

"That doesn't make it okay," said Harry thickly. "They're old enough to know better. I've just turned eighteen— summer birthday— and when I was seventeen, I was worrying about… about much bigger problems than House rivalries and girlfriends."

"You were fighting for your life," said Remus softly, tentatively, bringing up what they had all found so shocking at breakfast.

"Yeah," said Harry, not meeting his eyes. "Yeah. We had our own troubles. At Ilvermorny, I mean. People were dying. Nobody cared about _this_ stupid stuff."

"That must have been hard," said Remus, and the words sounded pale in comparison to the depth with which he felt them. "I know it's… it's tough out there in the real world at the moment. The worst we have to deal with here is detention. I can't imagine…."

"Yeah," said Harry again. He was pressing his fingers harder into the table, tapping more insistently.

Time for a change of topic.

"I think I have an idea," said Remus. "If you'll allow me?"

Harry looked at him with interest and something else. Something more profound, though Remus shied away from identifying it.

"I think we can both agree Sirius was in the wrong," said Remus, leaning forward and speaking more quietly, "but we don't want anything _too_ bad to happen to him…."

Harry listened, and as Remus talked, a slow, sparkling smile began to emerge.

He nodded along, encouraging, and Remus wondered why it felt so much like he was talking to _Lily_.

* * *

…

TBC…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, and thanks to Stoneage_Woman for the beta read! Don't be too hard on Sirius just yet. I know that was a super dick-move, but he'll get better. And this was a pretty short chapter. The next one should be longer again (the duel!!). Thanks for all the support, and stay tuned! ❤


	6. He only meant to maim

* * *

" _Dobby never meant to kill. He only meant to maim, or seriously injure."_

― J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

* * *

**Chapter 6: He only meant to maim**

Professor Bowie took a long swig from his whiskey flask.

Harry had gotten a good whiff from it just a few hours ago and could confirm it was whiskey, not Polyjuice Potion. His eyes had watered from the strength of the alcohol, which bordered on moonshine.

"Welcome, you lot, to the first dueling club practice!" cried Professor Bowie, immediately hushing the chatter from the dozens of assembled students. It was the upper years' practice, mandatory, held separate from the lower years. They were in the Great Hall, the four long tables gone and replaced with a sparkling golden stage near where the high table had sat. He continued, "I have Professor Flitwick here with me as co-coach, since he has won not one, not two, but _three_ national dueling championships, and not one, but _two_ international championships!"

Harry and the others gave a respectful and somewhat surprised round of applause for Professor Flitwick, who chuckled and gave a good-natured bow.

In all his years at Hogwarts, Harry couldn't remember hearing that about Flitwick before. Why hadn't he continued the dueling club in Harry's time instead of Lockhart?

"Tonight is going to be a special treat," continued Bowie, who lit his cigarette with his wand tip, "because we have _six_ volunteers from your veteran seventh years! Boy, are they going to give you a show!"

"What," said James, not far from Harry.

"What," said Malfoy, equidistant.

"Fuckers," said Sirius, looking to Remus and Harry in betrayal. "Absolute, manipulative traitors. I can't believe you landed in Gryffindor, either of you."

Snape's lips were twitching as if he wanted to bare his teeth but couldn't quite remember how.

"First, before we get into that, let me give you an overview of dueling," said Bowie. He was standing on the stage with Flitwick, in clear view of the students. "Although dueling is now, first and foremost, a sport in which wizards demonstrate their aptitude with offensive and defensive spells alongside their performance under pressure, dueling was long before that a means to settle disputes between two wizards. As you may have noticed in the Great Hall this morning, a challenge between competitors was issued, according to the Old Ways, by throwing one's wizard's hat at another. If the challenge is accepted, the challenged wizard picks up the hat and states the first term: weapons.

"Now, most wizards choose wands as their weapon. There have historically been exceptions, however, such as potions, broomsticks, and, in the case of Herolda Finnich, two pork sausages, one which was contaminated with Salmonella.

"Next, after the weapons have been established, the challenger issues the location of the duel. Then the challenged is allowed to select the time. Between them, they select their seconds, or wizards who will take over in case the primary is unable to continue the duel, and occasionally thirds and fourths and so on, depending on alliances involved.

"The two duelists will also agree on _contact_ , which is a term that refers to whether or not their seconds will be in contact with one another. In many cases, the duelists have a dispute which can be solved by the extraordinary means of _talking about it_. The seconds, if they are allowed contact, will meet to discuss whether there is common ground for the duelists to start a dialogue and work out the issue nonviolently. If, however, there is no contact, or the seconds determine there is no chance for a peaceful resolution, we move onto the duel itself.

"Dueling etiquette, in and of itself, is simple. The opponents bow to one another," he paused, and he and Flitwick bowed to each other, each bending precisely at the waist. He continued, "They assume a stance, typically with the knees bent, ready for moving in either direction, and wand held shoulder-level facing their opponent. And then they are allowed to cast whatever spells they deem prudent to incapacitate their opponent.

"Here in this club, we will use the sporting rules, though note that some private duels may be different. For wizards, you may duel until one surrenders or one is no longer able to wield his wand. For witches, you may duel until one surrenders or first blood is drawn. Because, as we all know, witches will more readily duel to the death, unlike wizards, who will beat each other up and then go out for a drink afterwards.

"Now, any questions before our demonstration?"

The students cheered, ready for a show. Anybody with a question— Harry saw a few Ravenclaw hands go up— was shut up with no sympathy.

"Great, then," said Bowie, taking one long, last drag on his cigarette before flicking it off the stage. The few nearest students scattered to avoid being burned. "Professor Flitwick, let's do a reenactment of this morning, shall we?"

"Splendid, splendid!" said Flitwick. "I do love a bit of theater."

"Would you like to be the challenger or challenged?" asked Bowie. He tucked his flask back into his trouser pocket and drew his wand.

"Let me challenge," said Flitwick. "I so rarely get to be filled with righteous indignation."

"That little hobgoblin," muttered Malfoy, seething.

"After you, then, good sir," said Bowie.

Flitwick tore the pointed hat off his head and threw it forcefully at Bowie's feet. He cried, in his shrill voice, "You have insulted my dearest bosom friend, sir! I demand satisfaction!"

"Your friend is a Kneazle turd, sir, and I accept your challenge!" said Bowie, swiping up Flitwick's hat and brandishing it like a disgraceful, failing term paper. "I name wands as our weapons of competition!"

"Then we will meet with our wands at the Great Hall, you scoundrel!" said Flitwick. He shook his tiny fist for good measure.

"So be it! Be there at eight o'clock, evening, sharp!"

"You will have it! Draco Mallory, as my second, will be there as well!"

"Shit-fuck," said Malfoy, practically spitting. He scowled at Harry, disgusted.

"And I shall bring Sirius Black as my second!" said Bowie dramatically.

"Judases, all of you," snarled Sirius.

"I will agree to contact," said Flitwick magnanimously, "if you wish to send along your surrender— or apology."

"Never!" said Bowie. "Though, if you wish contact, we will need thirds, as Black and Mallory are not on speaking terms. I name James Potter!"

"And I name Severus Snape!" said Flitwick.

"Gosh-darn and blast it all," said Bowie, shaking his head. "They're not speaking either! We shall need fourths, if you are so cowardly that you wish to pass along your regrets for challenging me. I name Remus Lupin!"

"I will never regret challenging you, you gormless worm!" said Flitwick. "Harry Parker shall be my fourth!"

"So be it!"

"It is done!"

The Great Hall was roaring with laughter.

"Now, students," said Bowie, with mock seriousness. "Despite being the only two on speaking terms, Remus Lupin and Harry Parker could not fathom a way for us to overcome our immense and passionate hatred of one another. It was determined that we would proceed to the duel. Remember! Since we are all wizards, the fight shall be to surrender or inability to hold a wand! Now, seconds, thirds, fourths, get up here."

All scowling at Remus and Harry, the named duelists filed to the stage and stood behind their respective coach: Harry, Severus, and Malfoy behind Flitwick; Sirius, James, and Remus behind Bowie.

"Right," said Bowie, his voice carrying. "We shall demonstrate how a duel in numbers works in reality. Professor Flitwick and I will try to incapacitate one another, and once one is incapacitated— I know not yet which of us, though I regret it may be me— his _second_ will take over and duel the primary. The second may defeat the primary, in which case he will stay and continue to duel that primary's second, or he may lose, in which case the original primary may duel the opponent's third, and so on. Basically, once we start, we are in this until one team is fully finished. There is as much strategy in planning the order of a team in dueling as there is in any Quidditch match. Understand?"

The boys nodded.

"Good," said Bowie. "Once we are out, Flitwick and I will referee. We expect nice, clean duels from all of you. Nothing illegal, nothing lethal. Got it?"

"Yes, sir," said the boys, some more darkly than others.

"Then let us begin!" said Bowie.

He and Flitwick turned to each other, bowed at the waist, and assumed their stances, wands raised.

Harry watched with something like amusement as Bowie and Flitwick shot off spells at each other, each crying out the spell verbally and exaggerating the wand movement. Harry had seen Flitwick duel in earnest at the Battle of Hogwarts and knew it looked nothing like this performance, geared toward educating.

Flitwick had dueled Dolohov and _won_ , Harry recalled suddenly, and he couldn't help glancing at Remus as grief rose up within him. Dolohov had escaped before Kingsley had rallied the Ministry and started making arrests, but Flitwick had incapacitated him, at least.

This, the dueling club and Bowie, must have happened the first time around in the original timeline. He and Malfoy hadn't altered _that_ much. Why the ever-loving _fuck_ hadn't Remus paid more attention?

But his anger was misplaced, and he just as abruptly felt ashamed of himself.

Remus had grown up to be an exceptional wizard. During the Battle of Hogwarts… there had been so much going on, all of it so fast and so unpredictable. Harry didn't know what had happened during Remus and Dolohov's duel, but he very much doubted it was anything like the controlled conditions of a dueling club.

Fighting the deep, consuming tidal wave of grief and rage, Harry forced himself to pay attention to the duel in front of him.

So tame. So sportsmanlike.

"Any advice, Scar-head?" Malfoy's lazy drawl came from just behind Harry's shoulder.

Harry had to stop himself from drawing his wand and hexing him in reflex. Then he turned to stare at his former nemesis.

"You survived a war, Malfoy," he hissed, low enough that Snape couldn't hear, especially as enraptured as he was by the spectacle of professors hurling jinxes and hexes at each other. "Are you seriously concerned about a _supervised duel_?"

Malfoy glanced away, for all appearances unruffled, but his jaw was clenched and flexing. He still looked strange with his chestnut-brown hair. Instead of slicking it back like his usual platinum blond hair, he allowed it to fall loose, free around his face.

"You don't understand," Malfoy said eventually, barely moving his lips to speak. "The Blacks… my mother was a Black…. He's well-trained. The curses he probably knows…. It won't be like our little duel in second year."

Understanding flooded through Harry. He hesitated and then grabbed Malfoy's forearm and gave it a light squeeze, startling a swift, surprised glance from Malfoy before he again pretended nothing was happening.

"He's still just a kid," said Harry quietly, bracingly. "He hasn't… he hasn't gone through what we have. Not yet. Maybe the Blacks teach their kids some fancy wandwork, but he doesn't _know_. Not yet."

Malfoy nodded once, still not looking at Harry, and repeated as if to himself, "He doesn't know."

Harry looked at Malfoy, considering, and swallowed hard.

He remembered escaping from Malfoy Manor, that horrible night. Bellatrix had already summoned Voldemort, convinced of Harry's identity and defeat. When they had escaped, and she had killed Dobby…

Harry remembered seeing through Voldemort's eyes as he'd dug Dobby's grave by hand. He remembered how brutally Voldemort had tortured the Malfoys and Bellatrix for summoning him only to allow Harry to slip through their fingers.

Voldemort had tortured _Draco_.

It probably wasn't even the first time.

"If it helps," said Harry, also feigning interest in the professors' duel, "Sirius tends to favor the Blasting Curse. He's quick, but he can get distracted… playing around…."

It was painful to say, painful to remember the way Sirius had been taunting Bellatrix just before she had gotten in a clean shot. Worse still to be revealing that weakness to anyone else, but _especially_ Malfoy.

Malfoy, however, only nodded and murmured thoughtfully, "Like Bellatrix."

" _NOT like Bellatrix!"_

Snape shot a startled and annoyed look in their direction at the outburst.

Harry didn't care. He was panting, his anger suddenly white-hot, and looking at Malfoy like he'd never seen him before.

He couldn't believe— what had he been thinking, trying to help Malfoy? Betraying Sirius—

"I didn't mean it as an insult," said Malfoy, turning a sharp gaze around their vicinity to make sure nobody was paying attention to them instead of the duel. "I just meant… well, in pureblood families, we call it the Black family madness. No, hush, Potter, it's still not an insult, it's a fact. I'm sure your godfather was nothing like Auntie Bella. But they were related, and it occasionally shows. And I would apologize for the comparison, but he did just piss in _my godfather's_ bed, so forgive me if I'm not particularly sympathetic."

Harry huffed and sputtered, red-faced. He couldn't articulate all the raging, conflicting thoughts and feelings hurtling through him at the speed of a meteor shower and just as fiery and violent.

He hated— _this_ was why he hated Malfoy, why he never should have tried to comfort him. But Sirius— falling through the veil— and Severus Snape ( _he was a good man_ )— blood everywhere and puncture wounds in his throat—

And Sirius comforting Harry with a grin that looked so happy and so close to tears: _"Oh course he was a bit of an idiot! We were all idiots!"_

But Bellatrix had killed Sirius— killed Dobby— _tortured_ Hermione—

"Oh, dear, that's not a flattering look for you," said Malfoy with a smirk.

" _You_ —!"

But Flitwick had just managed to Disarm Bowie with a picture-perfect spell, ricocheting it around Bowie's shield charm like a hook.

"Here we go," said Malfoy, at once becoming serious.

Bowie bowed off the stage, and Flitwick returned his wand and the bow with a breathless but pleased little titter.

Sirius stepped up, his face lit with excitement. They bowed to each other.

"Quick question, Professor," said Sirius, even as he assumed a dueling stance as natural as breathing. "You're not going to give me detention if I manage to hit you, are you?"

"Of course not, dear boy!" said Flitwick, looking revitalized and equally in his element. "It's all in good fun!"

"That's not what you said about the mir—"

"I'll simply set Professor McGonagall upon you!"

"Oh, Minnie." A dreamy look crossed Sirius's face. "The love of my life. 'twould be naught but a pleasure to see her more outside of class, even if it were—"

"Stop stalling, Black!" shouted Bowie from the sidelines, lighting up another smoke. "Hex your Charms Professor or I'll hex you!"

Flitwick helped by casting the first spell, another Disarming spell, which Sirius flicked away like an annoying gnat. They grinned at each other.

Even though Harry had been the one reminding Malfoy it was a safe, supervised duel, it was difficult to watch. After the first few exchanges, he had to turn away, close his eyes, and focus on breathing.

 _Sirius is safe_ , he repeated to himself like a mantra. _It's just Flitwick. Sirius is safe._

It didn't matter, another voice countered, because Sirius was already dead. Nothing could hurt him anymore.

None of it mattered. They were all dead, except Harry and Malfoy and Flitwick.

"Are you having another fit?" came Snape's voice. It wasn't as deep as it would get in later years, but it had that same surprisingly soft, silky quality Harry would always associate with dimly lit potions classes in the dungeons.

Harry looked up to find Snape's dark, bottomless eyes on him. Astonishingly, he didn't look judgmental or derisive, but there was an intense, piercing quality to his gaze.

Harry wondered if he had started practicing Legilimency yet.

Harry shook his head, breaking eye contact just in case, and took a deep albeit shaky breath.

No. No, he wasn't having another panic attack.

They were in the past. For the moment, they were alive, and they were safe. All of them.

And even though Harry hadn't been able to stand up for Snape in that awful memory in the Pensieve in fifth year, he was standing up for him now.

Maybe it wouldn't help anything. Maybe it didn't mean anything.

But maybe it did.

Snape nodded once and returned his attention to Sirius and Flitwick's match, satisfied.

Perhaps Flitwick was tired from his flashy duel with Bowie; perhaps he and Bowie had arranged beforehand for the winner between them to bow out quickly and let the students have their shot at each other. Either way, Sirius managed to get a full-body lock on Flitwick surprisingly quickly.

Sirius, grinning, flicked his wand to release the Charms professor. Panting, Flitwick stood. They bowed to one another, and Flitwick moved offstage to supervise with Bowie.

Malfoy's jaw clenched. He straightened his shoulders, the muscles going taut, and deliberately lifted his chin as he marched up to face Sirius.

They bowed, neither taking their eyes off the other.

Sirius's grin had taken on a wild energy, a sharper edge of teeth.

Malfoy looked determined, all tight coils of muscles and laser focused intensity.

"Alright, Mallory," said Sirius, raising his wand. "Your sense of humor is abysmal. Let's see if your wandwork is any better."

"You think this is a joke," said Malfoy. He sounded as if he had finally realized the crux of the dispute between them. His lips went thin as he, too, raised his wand. "Parker was right. You're just a kid, Black. And you need to grow up."

Sirius's smile twitched and then took an even sharper edge. He cast the first spell— yep, there was the fiery orange of a Blasting Curse— and Malfoy countered it with a Shield Charm in the same breath.

With that, the floodgates opened.

Sirius wielded his wand like a sword. His arms were a blur of sharp flashes, jabs, and parries. He advanced, step by step, never pausing his spellcasting even when it meant ducking or leaping over a jet of light. He was a raging storm of motion, never hesitating, never letting up.

Malfoy kept his feet planted. His wand movements were fast, precise, controlled. His expression was one of concentration, but Harry recognized that steely glint in his eyes as something he saw often in the mirror: Malfoy knew he might get hurt, but he was determined to see it through anyway.

Jets of light whistled in every direction; sparks danced off shields.

Sirius drew up to Malfoy until they were almost toe-to-toe, but Malfoy refused to move. A moment later, Malfoy blasted him back with a wind charm Harry didn't recognize, but there was enough brute strength that Sirius couldn't avoid it.

Sirius circled Malfoy, forcing him to turn in place, but Malfoy still didn't give an inch.

"I didn't really expect your friend to last this long against Black," Snape muttered to Harry, as the violent, fast-paced duel dragged on. "He must be quite talented."

"I really wish everyone would stop referring to him as 'my friend,'" Harry muttered back.

"At this rate, I won't get my turn to hex Black for another ten minutes."

"Don't be ridiculous," said Harry, giving Snape a scorching side-eye. "Didn't you hear Malf— Mallory at breakfast? He's going to beat Sirius. For _you_."

Snape didn't respond for a moment but gave Harry another intense, piercing stare, which Harry returned as best he could without directly meeting Snape's eyes. He'd mastered that trick in fifth year.

Finally, Snape said, "He is an odd sort, that much is clear. Still, I doubt he can win against Black. A no-name half-blood against the Ancient House of Bl—"

"Hey, Ferret-face!" Harry shouted into the fray. "Quit taking the piss and finish him already! His arm movements are too big, and he keeps leaving his left open!"

Malfoy didn't hesitate. He ducked under Sirius's latest hex and shot a Blasting Curse of his own into the left side of Sirius's chest, which he had indeed left open after a grandiose movement for the Full Body Bind.

Sirius flew into the air and then crashed to the ground offstage.

Snape whirled to give Harry a look of shock, then Sirius roared, "SNAKE!" at the same time James's voice carried, _"Oh, no_ _he didn't!"_

"Thanks, Parker," said Malfoy, straightening his robes and dusting imaginary lint off his shoulder. He sounded as if he were merely thanking Harry for holding a door open or keeping the kettle warm.

"You were taking your time, weren't you?"

"Not all of us are as impulsive and rash as you Gryffindors."

"He's no Gryffindor!" shouted Sirius, leaping back onto the stage and clutching his wand. His robes had a scorched and smoking hole on the left side, show blistered red skin underneath. _"Parker, you traitor!"_

"Do you surrender?" asked Malfoy pleasantly.

"Hell-fucking-no, I don't! _Reducto!_ "

" _Protego! Bombarda maxima!"_

The ground at Sirius's feet exploded like a grenade, blowing Sirius into the air yet again, this time engulfed in a mushroom cloud of fire and smoke.

Harry started forward, horrified, his heart in his throat—

"Is that the best you can do? _Expulso!_ " came Sirius's voice along with a jet of bright blue light from behind the smoke.

But Sirius couldn't see where he was aiming through the smoke, and the curse went wide, missing Malfoy entirely and soaring into the audience of students. The professors were on the wrong side of the stage, Sirius's side, they were too slow—

" _Protego maxima!"_ shouted Harry.

The blue jet of light hit Harry's shield and exploded with enough force to whip his hair back. The gouts of flames cleared, and Harry saw his mother on the other side, face white and stunned.

Beside him, Snape went rigid, following his glance.

"Boys!" squeaked Flitwick, hopping anxiously from foot to foot. "Boys—"

Sirius and Malfoy didn't seem to hear.

" _Confringo!_ " cried Sirius again, lashing out with that fiery orange blast. " _Reducto!_ "

Malfoy dove out of the way and, from the ground, pointed his wand at Sirius and shouted, _"Electrillius maxima!"_

A blinding, jagged white bolt of lightning shot out of Malfoy's wand. The explosion of sound was deafening.

Harry's mind went blank.

He had only ever seen Voldemort harness lightning like that.

That spell could kill. That spell _would_ kill.

Sirius's face, illuminated in the dazzling white light, was wide-eyed and open-mouthed. He was frozen in shock.

Harry's feet moved before his mind caught up. He found himself between Malfoy and Sirius, wand raised and crying _, "Protego horribilis!"_ pouring every ounce of his magic, every fiber of his being into it.

The lightning struck the shield like boiling water crashing into ice. Steam billowed around them, scalding and thick. The force of the blow knocked Harry backwards almost into Sirius, but he ducked his head against the pressure and held his wand in both hands, giving the shield everything he had. Eventually, his feet stopped sliding backwards, and he felt the pressure bearing down on him lessen.

The blinding light fizzled out amidst the cloud of steam.

Harry stood, holding his position and panting, until silence and relative darkness permeated the Great Hall.

Then he slashed his wand in frustration and strode up to Malfoy, rage boiling over. He grabbed Malfoy's collar and jerked him roughly back to his feet.

"How _dare_ you?" Harry demanded, shoving him hard. He was aware of movement around them, professors and the other students getting over their shock and stirring into action, but he could barely see them through the dense, lingering mist. "I _supported_ you because you were doing the right thing for once! Sirius was wrong! But then you go and do something _worse_! You just tried to _kill him_ , Malfoy! What the fuck! How _dare you?_ "

Malfoy blinked rapidly, his mouth working but no sound coming out. His pale eyes darted around the hall in incomprehension. "I— I don't— I didn't think— My _mother_ taught— and then Aunt Bella said— but it wasn't—"

Harry shoved him again. Fury was giving way to terror, and he hated it.

He had almost lost his godfather again before he'd even had him. He had almost just watched Sirius die a second time because Draco Malfoy had, of course, been trained by Bellatrix Fucking Lestrange, who had been Voldemort's protégé.

The terror mounted, gripping around his throat like Pettigrew's enchanted silver hand. It was choking the life out of him.

 _He had almost lost Sirius again._ Sirius could have _died._

"Potter!" hissed Malfoy, coherency flooding back into his face. "Your hair! Fuck! _Crinus muto!_ "

Breathing hard, Harry pulled a lock of his hair into sight and watched it, dazed, as it turned from jet black to straw blond.

It took a moment for the implications to hit him, then he and Malfoy looked up at each other, identical looks of horror on their faces.

"Maybe they didn't see," whispered Malfoy. "All this steam…."

"Yeah," said Harry weakly. "Yeah…."

He'd been pushed right next to Sirius. If he had given all his focus to the shield instead of maintaining his hair-color charm, Sirius would definitely have seen.

Fuck.

" _Venus tria!_ " came Flitwick's voice, and a gust of hard wind whipped the Great Hall, buffeting the steam towards the front doors to dissipate.

"Boys," said Professor Bowie, appearing on the stage next to Harry and Malfoy in a fog not of steam but of cigarette smoke. "Mr. Black, it rather looks like you dropped your wand."

Indeed, Sirius's wand was lying useless on the ground next to him, doubtless slipped through his numb fingers before or after the lightning strike.

"The duel goes to Mr. Mallory. However, our instructions on non-lethal parameters were clear. Whatever that spell was, it was too much for a gentleman's duel, kid. You're out. Thirds and fourths, do you wish to continue?"

"No," said Harry and Remus.

"Ah, no, sir," said James, edging up to Sirius. "I think I should get him to the hospital wing. He's, ah… bleeding. A lot."

James helpfully bent down before reaching Sirius and picked up one of his shoes, which had been blasted off amongst the various explosion curses. He handed it back to a stunned Sirius and gave him a comforting pat on the shoulder.

"Well, I do!" snapped Snape, turning red in the cheeks. "I'm not afraid to face Potter! It looks like he's afraid to face _me_!"

"Then I forfeit," said James easily, wrapping an arm around Sirius's shoulder and urging him forward. "Congrats, you win. What a glorious occasion. You sure showed me. Et cetera, et cetera. May I be excused now?" He added to Bowie, who nodded. "C'mon, Pads, let's go. One foot in front of the other, there you go…."

As the two Marauders hobbled off to the infirmary, Bowie turned to the rest of the students and said, "Alright, you lot. Since the show's over, now it's your turn. Everyone, pair off. You'll be practicing your Shield Charms tonight, which all of our duelists demonstrated. Here's the wand movement again, and the incantation is ' _protego_.' Once you feel you've got a grasp on it, have your partner try to jinx you. No more duels to the death tonight, please; I've only got so much whiskey left in this flask. Now, we've got about thirty minutes left, so chop chop! Off you go! Ah— Mr. Mallory, a word first, if you please."

Malfoy swore under his breath but followed Bowie obediently offstage.

Harry looked over at Remus, his name on his tongue, when Snape stepped in his way.

"Parker, I'd like a word," he said.

"Uh, I don't… care?" said Harry. He almost winced, preparing to have House points taken, when he remembered Snape _wasn't his professor_. Something like elation swept through his chest. He could finally say what he wanted without repercussions— except— _Severus Snape is a good man_.

Ugh.

"Sorry, fine, alright," muttered Harry, running a hand through his hair. The steam had condensed into droplets of water on him, and he was now soggy and cold. He took off his glasses and did his best to mop off the water with his damp robes.

"Don't be absurd," said Snape, noticing what he was doing. He drew his wand and make a complicated little weaving motion, and warm air blasted Harry. In a matter of heartbeats, he was dry and warm again. Snape tucked his wand away and motioned off stage, toward a more deserted corner of the hall. "Please, come this way."

Harry followed with a sense of resignation. It was going to be hard to hate Snape properly as a teenager, knowing what he would grow up to do. And— no, maybe Snape wasn't perfect; he hadn't exactly started off great, only wanting to save Lily from Voldemort's interpretation of the prophecy and forget Harry and James, but… but he had come around. Even knowing Voldemort would kill him if he ever found out, he'd done what he could to save the people he could.

Much like Harry, Snape had been one of Dumbledore's tools in the war. They might have even been his two best tools.

It was a sobering thought.

Snape finally came to a point, stopped, and turned to face Harry.

Harry held up his wand at the ready position.

"What are you doing?" asked Snape, giving him an incredulous look.

"Uh, practicing the Shield Charm?" said Harry. "Do you want to try to jinx me, or should I jinx you?"

He hoped it was the latter, just for old time's sake.

"Don't be absurd," said Snape again. "Neither of us needs to practice the Shield Charm. We're not idiots, unlike the rest of these mollycoddled children."

"Can I have that in writing?"

"What?"

"Uh— never mind," said Harry. He lowered his wand, struggling not to look as stupid as he felt. "Anyway. You wanted a word?"

Severus flushed, and he looked away briefly before he collected himself. He said, so low Harry had to strain to hear, "I just wanted to say thank you. For that Protego Maxima. I saw that idiot's curse would have hit Evans. Expulso… it would have been terrible."

"Oh," said Harry. He watched the blush creep higher up Snape's cheeks, reconsidered what he knew of Snape's history, and felt instantly mortified. " _Oh!_ Oh, no, don't, uh, don't worry about it. Lily is my friend, too. I mean— _just friend!_ Anyway, uh…. Right. That's that. Nice chat. Bye."

"Parker!" Snape called as Harry turned away, going to find Remus or, hell, even Pettigrew. Harry stopped, took a deep breath, and turned to face his would-be potions professor. Snape didn't smile. He looked serious. "This balancing act you have going on between the Gryffindors and Slytherins… it's not going to last. If you want to maintain a friendship with Mallory, you won't be accepted by them. And if you become friends with them, they won't stand for your alliance with Mallory. You'll have to choose."

"Why does everyone think Mallory is my friend?"

"Why did you volunteer to be his third?"

"Because it was the right thing to do! Because I couldn't do nothing!"

Snape's pale, thin face clouded. He said hissed, "If you want to pick a fight with your idiot housemates, don't use me as an excuse. I don't need your help, and I certainly don't need your _pity_."

"I don't want to start a fight with them!" said Harry, exasperated. "Just like I'm not trying to start a fight with you. Look, I know Lily used to be your friend. Shouldn't you be supporting me and my— my— _interhouse camaraderie_?"

"No, Parker, that's exactly why I can't," said Snape. "That's why I'm trying to warn you. The political atmosphere outside these walls is extremely volatile. You can't have ties to both sides."

"What are you saying?" asked Harry suddenly, giving Snape a hard look. "You say you're warning me, but what do you get out of it? Why would you help me?"

Snape scowled, but Harry couldn't tell if he was frustrated at being caught or frustrated that Harry couldn't piece it together for himself.

"You are clearly an advanced wizard," Snape bit out. "Leave Mallory to me. _You_ protect Evans where _I can't_. None of the 'Marauders' can be trusted alone with her except perhaps Pettigrew, but his incompetence makes him useless to me. And then in a few years, when I am in the Dark Lord's inner circle and have ensured her protection myself, I will put in a good word for you, as well. The Dark Lord values competence no matter your blood status. That is why he is interested in _me_."

Snape lifted his chin in defiant pride, as if he expected Harry to scoff at the idea that Voldemort could be interested in him.

Harry stared at him, speechless.

Oh. Oh, he had forgotten that Snape _really_ wasn't a good man at this point in his life. There was potential for it, his desire to protect Lily almost noble, but… he only expected Harry to give up another friend to do it for "political" reasons, and then he would save Lily and never think twice about any of the other Muggle-borns…

And Harry himself just called Malfoy his friend, _dammit_.

And then another thought struck Harry, and he swayed where he stood from the blow of it.

Had… had Severus Snape just tried to recruit him? Him, Harry Potter, for Lord Voldemort?

_He would put in a good word…. The Dark Lord values competence…._

It started as a tiny giggle that he managed to force back down. Then his shoulders were shaking with the effort of holding it back, and his eyes were tearing up, and he was doubling over….

His hysterical laughter burst out, strangled, sounding not unlike a braying donkey. He clapped a hand over his mouth, but then he couldn't breathe because he was laughing too hard, and he needed his hand to prop himself up on his knees because he couldn't stand up straight….

"Oh, what now?" came Malfoy's voice. "Did you tell him a dirty joke? Those are supposed to be for me!"

"What I said was far from amusing," sneered Snape. "This reaction is _insulting_."

"Oh, yeah, that I believe." Malfoy sounded placated. Then, uncertainly, "What… precisely did you say? He's not stopping. Oh, Merlin, you've broken him. A lightning strike he survives, no problem, why not? But I leave him alone with you for five minutes and—"

"I'd rather keep our discussion between us, thank you."

"He—" gasped Harry, tears streaming down his heated face, "he tried— _he tried to recruit me! For Voldemort!_ "

"That's not—" began Snape, flustered, "I never said—"

Malfoy made a sound somewhere between a whimper and a gag. His face remained impressively straight.

" _You_ would do well not to laugh at the Dark Lord's name," Snape went on imperiously to Malfoy. "Not with the company you—"

The gagging noise became more of a choked whine.

"You _dare_ —?"

Then Malfoy was howling with laughter right beside Harry.

"You _didn't!_ " Malfoy practically shrieked right next to Harry's ear. They were leaning on each other for support. "Se- _Severus!_ "

They howled like a couple of monkeys, grabbing onto each other even as they both sank to the floor.

At some point, Snape must have tired of being laughed at, because he was gone, and it was just Harry and Malfoy on the floor, curled up in a painful amount of hysterical laughter.

"My bladder!" howled Harry, clutching his stomach. "I'm gonna—"

"Me, too!" cried Malfoy, literally crying.

"A couple of Tickling Charms got past you boys, huh?" came Bowie's raspy voice from above them. "Funny, I thought your Shield Charms were better than that. No problem. _Finite incantatum!_ "

That only made Harry laugh harder, and it sounded like it had the same effect on Malfoy next to him. His ribs and abdomen were aching with the effort of continuing to laugh. It _hurt_.

Bowie was silent for a moment, considering his useless spell. Then he just said, "You Ilvermorny boys are fuckin' _weird_ ," and moved on.

"I… can't… breathe…" gasped Malfoy. "You would… have made… a _terrible_ Death Eater!"

Harry pounded his fist on the floor, physically unable to handle any more laughter without dying.

"And you… were any better?"

"I may have been… a disappointment… but at least I never killed… my master!"

"If he were… my master… I bet he would have found that— disappointing!"

They sobbed with laughter.

Through his blurry vision, a pair of scruffy men's uniform loafers appeared, alongside the dainty, gleaming pair of a girl's shoes.

"There's something wrong with them," said Remus musingly.

"But is it magical or mental?" asked Lily pragmatically.

"Why not both?" suggested Wormtail.

Lily crouched down, her brilliant green eyes only inches from Harry's own. "Harry?" she asked. "Is it a Tickling Charm? Those can get pretty ugly. Here. _Finite incantatum!_ "

Harry slapped the ground, wheezing and crying.

"Oh, God!" wheezed Malfoy, laughing harder again.

"No?" murmured Lily. "Okay, let's try: _anapneo!_ "

Miraculously, oxygen rushed into Harry's lungs, and he drew a deep, invigorating breath. He let it out slowly, finally able to breathe without laughing, though a lingering giggle or two escaped. Exhausted, he nudged Malfoy and mumbled, "Him. Do him, too."

" _Anapneo!_ " Lily repeated, and Malfoy drew a deep, gasping breath next to him.

"Oh, Merlin," groaned Malfoy, sitting up. He dragged Harry upright, too, the presumptuous git. "Oh, I am never going to laugh like that again, so long as I live."

"I that a prediction or a threat?" asked Harry.

"Either. Both. Selena Salazar's _tits_ , Po—uh—Parker, don't surprise me like that again."

"Sorry," said Harry, even though he wasn't. He was too busy dealing with his own upturned worldview.

Severus Snape thought he would have made a good Death Eater.

"Must've been some joke," said Lily with raised eyebrows. "Care to share?"

"It's nothing," muttered Harry, at the same time Malfoy said,

"Severus is hilarious."

Lily got a wistful little smile about her face, while Remus looked skeptical.

"He can be," Lily said. "Anyway, Mallory, I actually wanted to congratulate you on the duel."

Malfoy's eyebrows shot up.

Lily continued doggedly, looking painfully earnest, "I figured out what happened, you know, through the rumor mill. I'm glad…. It was very good of you to stand up for Severus like that. So, thank you. And I've already thanked Remus, Harry, but I'm so glad you two forfeited when it was over. I was absolutely dreading any of you getting hurt."

"Oh," said Harry. He looked at Malfoy, who was blushing a bright pink and pretending he wasn't. "Um, it was no problem, Lily. It was just what we've talked about before— about them being so immature. I don't have that problem with Remus, right?"

Remus gave him a bracing smile and nodded, while Lily did the same.

"You know," said Lily, looking between Harry and Malfoy both. "Whenever you need them taken down a peg, you don't have to challenge them to a duel in front of hundreds of witnesses. Just let me and Marlene know. I'm very good at Pilchardo Dispucto, and Marlene is terrifying with a Tentacle Head Curse."

"Pilchardo Dispucto?" asked Malfoy curiously.

"It makes you sneeze out sardines," said Lily matter-of-factly.

Malfoy looked delighted and a bit like he might swoon.

"Thanks," repeated Harry, giving Malfoy a discrete shove. "Could you give us a minute? We haven't gotten any practice in yet…."

"Sure," said Lily. "Just checking on you. We could hear you cackling from across the hall. See you back in the tower."

As the mismatched Gryffindor trio left, Harry turned to Malfoy and said, "You're not allowed to have a crush on my mother. I can barely handle Snape. I might really spring a leak if it were you, too."

"I don't have a— _Severus_ doesn't have a—" Malfoy's sputtering paused. His eyes widened. "Oh… _that's_ why he doesn't shut up about her."

"Ew, gross, no, no more of that," said Harry, pressing his eyes behind his glasses as if that could rid the image of Snape waxing poetic about his teenage mother from them. "Besides that, I'll still pissed at you. What were you thinking, casting that spell at Sirius? I've only ever seen Voldemort use that one. You could have _killed_ him."

Any good humor in Malfoy vanished. He looked away, his expression drawn.

Harry refused to let him off the hook, though. He waited staunchly for an answer.

"I didn't… mean to," said Malfoy eventually.

Rage and disbelief sparked in Harry, but he bit his tongue and forced himself to hear Malfoy out.

They had been on the same side for just a moment there. Neither of them had wanted Snape tormented as Sirius had done.

For God's sake, Malfoy had shown _backbone_ in challenging Sirius to defend a friend's honor. It was… it was downright Gryffindor of him. Even Lily approved.

"My mother was a Black, as I believe I mentioned," continued Malfoy slowly, apparently choosing his words with care. "She taught me how to duel. She was afraid for me when the Dark Lord returned. She taught me how to _win_. And then Aunt Bella wanted to test me when she came to live at the manor. She… she actually fights a lot like your Sirius. Quick, aggressive…. She's the one who taught me that spell. The Dark Lord taught her, you see. She and Snape were his… pupils, I suppose, in the Dark Arts."

Harry crossed his arms and waited.

"I don't like fighting, Potter," said Malfoy at length, as if it cost him a great deal to admit. He didn't meet Harry's eyes. "Neither did my mother, actually. But, as I said, she did teach me to win. And when Black was casting those curses at me, all I could think about was Aunt Bella, and my mother watching in a panic, and I just knew I had to win at whatever the cost… and so I cast that spell. That's all. That's what happened."

Harry didn't respond.

He understood, unfortunately. He wanted to be angry; anger was familiar, safe. But he knew intimately how one just reacted when a wand was pointed in one's face, how _he_ reacted, even when his loved ones were at the other end of the wand.

After what they had been through, the war and the torture and the desperation…

Harry sighed. He rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"Alright," he said heavily. "I get it. Just… just don't do it again, alright? I haven't gone around attacking Snape. I'd appreciate the same courtesy, if you don't mind. Even though they're _both_ unbearable at this point in their lives."

There was a pause, and then they abruptly began sniggering again.

When it was through, and Harry was wiping a tear from his eye, Malfoy asked slowly,

"What was that shield you cast? Against the lightning? Bellatrix assured me it couldn't be shielded against."

"Oh. Protego Horribilis. I heard Professor Flitwick cast it during… you know, the battle… and Voldemort was trying to break through it with that lightning, but it was taking a long time…" Harry shrugged. "I thought it couldn't hurt. It was the best I had."

Malfoy stared at him, pale, with his lips slightly parted. Finally, he shook his head and muttered disbelievingly, " _Gryffindors_."

…

Sirius reeked of smoke and sweat. His robes were singed, and a few holes had burned through to the skin leaving blisters and trickling blood in their place. A bruise was already beginning to form along his right cheekbone and jaw where he'd knocked his head against either the stage or the ground, James couldn't remember. There were doubtless other bruises on his ass and the back of his head where he'd been tossed back like a ragdoll from the explosions.

James supported him from the Great Hall with an arm around his shoulders, though Sirius could walk just fine.

He mostly seemed to be in shock.

They made it to the first moving staircase that would lead them up to the infirmary, and James prodded him up the steps with quiet encouragement.

Unease curled in James's stomach, even as he kept his voice low and soothing. He hadn't seen Sirius wrecked like this since… well, since that summer after their fifth year, when Sirius had appeared on James's doorstep in the dead of night in the middle of a thunderstorm. Sirius had been ashen, his clothes soaked through, bloody and ripped, and shaking from the aftereffects of the Cruciatus Curse as well as the cold.

It had been the night he had run away from home.

James had never gotten the full story about what had happened, only that he and his mother had gotten into an argument— nothing unusual there— but it had escalated until she had reached for her wand. When the usual Stinging Hexes and other minor curses failed to shut him up, it had gotten… bad.

Sirius had barely said a word to James or his parents for days while he recovered.

He had that same drawn, haunted look now.

So, James was surprised when Sirius murmured, "It was a joke. It was a _joke_ , James. So, why were they acting like… like it was a matter of life or death?"

James squeezed Sirius's shoulder companionably as he considered his answer.

It was hard to pinpoint the exact moment he'd realized the duel was getting out of hand. Part of the problem was Sirius's innate dueling style: He was aggressive and had a huge arsenal of offensive spells at his beck and call. His reaction time and willingness to fight back under pressure were two of the things that made him an excellent duelist _and_ Beater.

But Mallory had been cool and collected under that intense barrage. He had gotten off a few offensive spells of his own, sure, but he'd mainly fought defensively, hiding behind his Shield Charm or reflecting spells back at Sirius.

Sirius had started getting frustrated, James realized, thinking back on it. He hadn't been able to get through Mallory's defense, and Mallory wasn't giving him a good fight in return. Sirius hadn't even been able to make him move from that position Mallory had claimed at the start of the duel like a man planting a flag in the ground or drawing a line in the sand.

Sirius had been getting frustrated… and then Harry had called out that blasted suggestion. That helpful hint. That traitorous, backstabbing observation.

It still irked James that his fellow Gryffindor had not only joined the Slytherin team, but he had also helped Mallory win that first duel. It wasn't even his duel to win!

And when Mallory had finally spotted his target, he'd had a surprisingly good offensive game.

Sirius had gotten the fight he'd wanted, but he must have realized at that point that he also might _lose_.

Mallory had pressed his advantage, using Sirius's shaken confidence to boost his own, fighting more and more aggressively, fighting to win and damn the cost, fighting…

Fighting like his life depended on it.

Harry's words at breakfast came back to James.

" _Fighting for your life… for your friends' lives… isn't the same as a duel."_

"I think they've been through something bad, Pads," said James slowly, piecing it together. "I don't know what the war looks like over in America, but it sounds like they… well, they might have been _in_ it. I don't think dueling is fun for them. I think it's serious. And if that Mallory bloke was willing to challenge you to one over Snape… well…." Here was the uncomfortable conclusion James had finally drawn, and he glanced at Sirius in worry. He finished, gently but immovably, "I think you might have gone too far this time. If Mallory and Harry were both willing to fight to what, in their heads, would be to the death, and they hardly know Snape…. Well, Pads… that should probably tell you something."

He clapped Sirius on the shoulder, bracing and sympathetic.

Sirius flinched, and James quickly took his hand away.

"Sorry, sorry…"

Sirius rubbed his injured shoulder and gave James a deeply unhappy look. He couldn't hold James's gaze for long, though, and he huffed out a breath and stared at the floor.

"They barely know Snape," Sirius repeated. "Do you think they'd feel the same if they knew he was a Death Eater? After whatever they've been through?"

"Oh, come on, you don't know he's a—"

"It's not bloody hard to spot, Prongs, of course he's—"

"You can't just say that about every Slytherin now!"

"You heard what Mulciber did to Mary last year, and she said Snape just stood there and _watched!_ "

"Using Dark magic doesn't automatically make you a Death Eater—"

"Oh, it might as well!"

"—just look at your mum—"

"And _Regulus!_ " snapped Sirius, loud enough to startle a Victorian witch out of her portrait.

James stopped in the middle of the corridor. It was deserted except for them and the paintings.

"And Regulus what?" asked James, dread filling his stomach like ice.

Sirius huffed out a deep breath and turned away. He ran a hand through his dark hair. After an unbearable silence, he said quietly, "Regulus took the Mark over the summer."

"You talked to him? When?"

"I was under the Cloak, going to the kitchens for a snack. He was walking by, bragging to his snaky little friends…. He was so proud of himself. Bet Mum's proud, too. Finally got the _proper_ pureblood son she always wanted…."

James let out a slow breath and bowed his head. "Hell," he said eloquently.

"Yeah," muttered Sirius.

They stood like that for a while in silence.

"You know Rosier's one," said Sirius, shoving his hands deep in his pockets and staring at the floor. "You heard your dad complaining about the new policies his dad's enacting at the Ministry, forcing wizards to have a blood status interview before they can immigrate…. And the Rosiers run in the same circles as the Averys, and Avery would pull Mulciber in because he's shown the right attitude and has the right bloodlines…. Be serious, here, James. You think Snape has been their little cling-on for six years and hasn't even thought about joining them?"

"He was friends with Lily for years, though."

"And she kicked him to the curb because he kept calling her a Mu— a you-know-what!"

"Yeah…" muttered James, taking his turn to look at the floor while Sirius glared at him, daring him to argue.

James knew Sirius had brought that up because nothing made him hate Snape more than the reminder of how badly he'd treated Lily, but…. it didn't feel right.

He didn't want to see Sirius fall just as low as Snape to fight him. And Sirius was falling.

"He may be a Death Eater," said James softly. He looked up and caught Sirius's gaze, held it. "He may not be. That's not important. The world's not sorted into good people and Death Eaters. Some people are just bad. And you and me, mate? We can't fight Voldemort and Death Eaters if we're just going to go home and be bad people. We have to be better."

Sirius's brow furrowed, and his eyes were solemn, penetrating, as he held James's gaze.

James knew he was on treacherous ground, implying that Sirius was a bad person for his latest prank. Nothing was more volatile than a Sirius Black being likened to his shitty family. But even if James couldn't say it, Sirius needed to hear it.

Judging by that expression, he had.

James grabbed Sirius's uninjured shoulder and leaned forward until their foreheads were almost touching.

"We're gonna fight the good fight, aren't we?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

"Damn straight," said Sirius.

" _Damn_ straight," repeated James. "Not only are we going to fight Death Eaters, we're going to stand up to the regular arseholes, like that wizard Lily was talking about who was experimenting on House Elves, and gits who think werewolves shouldn't be allowed Gringotts accounts or _wands_. _Right?_ "

"Right," said Sirius, nodding once. His shoulder was relaxing under James's hand.

"Right," said James. He clapped Sirius's shoulder and drew away. "I've got your back, Pads. We can do this. We're going to do this. Together. We'll be okay. _You'll_ be okay."

Sirius nodded, but he looked away and swallowed hard.

"Thanks," he said eventually. "For the talk, and for the save back in the duel."

"What save?" asked James.

They started walking again toward the Hospital Wing.

"You know, the shield," said Sirius, waving a hand with effortless elegance, as if that would help clear up James's confusion. "When Mallory shot that gods-be-damned _lightning_ at me. I would have been toast if you hadn't stepped in."

James stared sideways at his friend. "Uh, I think you might have hit your head harder than we realized. I didn't step in."

Sirius treated him to the same furrowed-brow sidelong look. "'Course you did. You cast Protego Horribilis. I didn't even know that one existed."

"Padfoot, I'm telling you: I didn't step in. I don't even know what Protego Horribilis is. You're probably hallucinating like that time we took that purple potion, remember?"

"Of course, I remember the purple spirit quest potion!" snapped Sirius. "This is different. I'm _sure_ I saw you jump between me and that lightning! _Prongs!_ "

James laughed and held out his hands in surrender. Inwardly, he calculated how much quicker they could get to the Hospital Wing if they took that secret passageway behind the bouquet of sheep portrait.

"Don't whine at me; it's not going to change the truth. Hey, c'mere, mate, let's go this way…."

"Why would—?"

"Don't worry about it. Just move faster."

* * *

…

TBC…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for the support, my lovely readers! I always enjoy hearing from you. And thanks to Stoneage_Woman for the invaluable thoughts and advice as a beta reader. See you next week!


	7. Looking back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not dead!! Without further ado, here's the chapter. Enjoy! More notes at the end.

* * *

" _He felt that he was still groping in the dark; he had chosen his path but kept looking back, wondering whether he had misread the signs, whether he should not have taken the other way."_

J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

* * *

**Chapter 7: Looking back**

James plopped onto the bench next to Harry at breakfast the following morning as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He was playing with a Snitch exactly like Harry had seen in Snape's memory from his fifth year.

Harry eyed him and the Snitch warily. He knew James and Sirius were upset over how he'd helped Malfoy win the duel against Sirius. They hadn't exactly been shy with their grumbling the night before. Harry had heard a number of mutterings on the themes of traitors and shame and disappointment.

Mention of revenge had been suspiciously absent.

"Morning!" James said cheerily.

"Morning…?" said Harry.

Remus gave him a sympathetic look and took the seat on Harry's other side.

Well, if Remus was in on it, it couldn't be too bad, Harry reasoned, returning to his breakfast. Remus would at least warn him if it were terrible.

It was either that or Remus was a target, too, for his role in staging the duel under the professors' noses.

"Say, is that the Prophet?" James asked, catching sight of the abandoned paper in front of Harry's plate. "May I?"

Harry nodded. It wasn't his, anyway. He hadn't set up a subscription in this timeline, hoping to be gone before he needed to catch up on "current" events.

That and— and _Hedwig_ brought him the Prophet. He didn't know how he would react, especially sitting in the Great Hall of Hogwarts where he had spent six years watching for Hedwig with the morning owls, if some other owl started bringing him the paper instead.

It made a small part of him angry, and he didn't know why.

He didn't examine the thought too closely.

James took the paper with a thanks and then— impressive even by Harry's standards— started to read with one hand and occasionally swipe the Snitch out of the air with the other.

Harry caught himself staring at the Snitch, a feeling of dread curling in his stomach.

_I open at the close_.

It was surreal, almost mesmerizing, to watch James toying with it knowing that a Snitch… sometime twenty years in the future, a Snitch holding the Resurrection Stone would bring James back as a ghost.

And the ghost of James Potter would smile at Harry and walk with him to his death.

I open at the close— _I am about to die_.

That James had loved Harry more than anything in the world. More than his own life.

This James looked entirely suspicious as he tried to feign innocence, a kid out for petty revenge.

"—Harry?"

Harry tore his eyes away from the Snitch flapping in James's fist to find Remus watching him expectantly.

He had missed the question.

"Sorry," he said, "what?"

Remus smiled easily. "I just asked what your plans were for today. Since most of the Houses are holding their Quidditch tryouts, and James and Sirius usually try to spy on the competition…."

"Oi," said James, whacking the Prophet onto the table to better give Remus a look of hurt and betrayal. "You're not going to come watch the Gryffindor tryouts? _Moony_. It's like I don't even know you anymore."

"You'll still have Peter to cheer for you in the otherwise deserted stands," Remus told him with mock solemnity. "But I, for one, thought this would be my only chance in _six years_ not to watch Sirius chase off his potential fellow Beaters with a bat that gives people wedgies unless they hold it _exactly_ to his standards."

Sirius, across from James and Harry, gave a fond chuckle. "Oh, Wendall the Wedgie Bat. Or should I use Wiggle Whipperpants this year?"

"I'll leave it up to your discretion," James said seriously. "We've got five applicants for the other Beater position. We need to weed out the unworthy. I want that Cup."

"You got it," said Sirius with a flourishing salute, made more eye-catching by the bagel topped with a sheer tower of bacon and eggs that survived the motion. "Screamy McMindfuck it is. You know, the one that—"

"—randomly shouts out your darkest secrets, threatens to kill you in the way you fear most, and then sobs hysterically until you cuddle it?" said James, stroking his chin pensively. "Yeah, mate, good choice. Quidditch can be a high-stress sport. We don't want anyone who cracks under pressure."

"So, Harry," said Remus, looking a little wild around the eyes. "Any… _other_ … plans?"

"Sorry," said Harry again, side-eyeing his future father and godfather with mounting apprehension. "Just studying in the library with Mallory again."

"You two do that a lot," Remus observed. "But you seem to be doing well in classes. Is the curriculum really that different than Ilvermorny's?"

Harry floundered, as he did every time someone expressed interest in Ilvermorny. "Er— yeah— we just…"

"Blimey," James said loudly, saving Harry from further stammering. He was looking at the Prophet with a stormy, pained expression. "The Jarlsbergers were found dead yesterday. Henry and Midge. They were friends with my parents."

"What happened?" asked Remus, setting down his toast.

"It doesn't say," said James, continuing to scan through the article. Harry caught a glimpse of a photo over his shoulder, presumably of Henry and Midge Jarlsberger. They were an older couple, probably well into their seventies or eighties, and were holding a trophy of some sort, laughing and bright-eyed. "There were no signs of a struggle. Their wards didn't register anyone outside of the family…."

Sirius made a grabby motion, and James passed him the paper looking dazed.

Sirius barely glanced at it before he closed it and passed it back. "Imperius Curse. Looks like someone got Midge."

"How can you tell?" asked James. He ran his hands through his hair, though for once, it looked like a genuine reaction to stress rather than an attempt to look good for Lily.

"Said they let their house elf go three weeks ago, and then Midge put in overtime in her volunteer work at the Muggle-born outreach program."

"So?" asked Peter, next to Sirius, while the others attempted to connect those two statements.

Sirius shrugged and went back to his breakfast, though his expression was dark. "Who better to tell when their mistress is acting odd than her faithful house elf? Nobody casting an Imperius can account for every little thing, like whether the victim takes two sugars with their tea or three. Maybe they know they like red wine over white, but do they prefer a Cabernet or a Bordeaux? Goblin-made or French? The best acting in the world can't fool a house elf. She's the first to go. Then the Muggle-born outreach program? Perfect for Death Eaters looking for targets. Midge had a list of names and addresses at her fingertips. Probably took three weeks for her to copy them all down and hand over to the Death Eater cursing her."

"Oh, my God," said James. "We have to warn them!"

"Write to your dad," suggested Sirius. "He deserves to know, if he hasn't figured it out for himself already. And he's got contacts in the outreach program from being friends with Midge so long, right?"

James nodded, already rummaging through his robes for a spare bit of parchment and a quill, Harry thought. Either that, or he was patting himself down very indecently in public. With him, it was usually a toss-up.

Remus passed Harry a square of parchment and quill, and Harry passed it to James silently.

James didn't bother with a thanks, just started writing.

He was still clutching the Snitch in one hand, forgotten.

Harry's chest ached.

"Hey," said Sirius, jutting his chin toward the Slytherin table. "What's your friend talking to Regulus about?"

"He's not my—"

Sirius kicked Harry under the table.

"Ow! Well, he's not—"

Sirius kicked him again.

"Ow!" Harry scowled and moved his knees closer to Remus, hopefully out of Sirius's range. "How should I know what they're talking about? I don't have Extendable Ears."

Sirius gave him an odd look.

Harry abruptly realized the phrase "extendable ears" probably sounded strange to someone who had never met the Weasley twins. However, he rubbed his throbbing shins, scowled, and didn't deign to explain.

Sirius huffed and went back to his food.

Lily, Mary, Marlene, and Gertrude chose that moment to emerge into the hall.

Lily took the spot on Sirius's other side, across from Harry, while the rest of the girls clustered nearby.

She looked at Sirius's plate with an expression of fond exasperation. "Going for the Ultimate Everything Bagel again?"

"The ultimatiest," Sirius confirmed. His bagel, last supporting a tower of bacon and eggs when Harry looked, was now stacked with strawberries, cantaloupe, porridge, potatoes, and cornflakes.

Lily sighed and rolled her eyes. She looked at Harry and said, "First Hogsmeade weekend next week. Have you heard of it?"

"Hogsmeade?" said Harry. "Oh. Yeah. Little wizarding village nearby, isn't it?"

Lily nodded. "Will you be going? They should have sent your parents a permission slip over the summer."

Harry's heart twinged again. He glanced between Lily and James, one bright and hopeful, the other working furiously on his letter, and then at Sirius, who was adding a layer of cheese to his absurdly tall bagel.

Lily and James should have given him permission in his third year. Sirius, despite being on the run, _did_.

"I don't need a parent's permission," he said. "We're adults at seventeen in the wizarding world, remember?"

Lily flushed but attempted a smile valiantly. "Ah, right. Silly of me. I keep forgetting."

"It still feels weird to me, too, sometimes," Harry admitted. "I grew up with my aunt and uncle, who were Muggles."

"Really?" Lily's tone was pleasantly surprised. "You're Muggle-born, too? Somehow, I don't think you've ever mentioned that before."

"Uh, not really," Harry said with an awkward shrug. Sometimes conversations with Lily took on a bizarre undertone when he remembered _this was his mother_ , but they so rarely talked about their parents it was usually easy to forget. He hadn't had such a mindboggling interaction yet. "I'm a half-blood, but my mum was a Muggle-born. I grew up with her side of the family."

Harry could see it the moment Lily understood the sensitive ground she'd stumbled onto. She had opened her mouth, bright and curious, then stopped as it clicked. If Harry didn't live with his parents, there was probably a good reason. And there was a war on— a war where Muggles and Muggle-borns were prime targets, and Harry had just admitted his mother was Muggle-born. Even if his father was Pure-blood, he had married a Muggle-born, and that made him a blood traitor, just as bad in some people's eyes.

"Oh," she said. "I'm sorry."

_It's okay_ , was Harry's usual answer, born out of years of not even remembering his parents, but somehow the words stuck in his throat this time.

Lily was looking at him with such earnest pain and sympathy in her green eyes.

_His_ green eyes.

She was so alive. So _real_.

Harry couldn't tell her it was okay that she was dead.

Tears pricked his eyes, and he looked down at his lap. He managed a short, jerking nod of acknowledgement. He wanted to say _me, too_ , but his throat was too tight.

He was saved from further awkwardness by the arrival of a small brown owl, which landed in front of Marlene and Gertrude as if it had been waiting for them. It stuck out its leg with a letter attached.

Marlene had scarcely gone to untie it before James was throwing himself full-body onto the table.

Plates, serving platters, and food went soaring like twin tidal waves on either side of his body.

One of the girls shrieked. Or it might have been Pettigrew.

"Marlene! I need that owl!"

"James Potter, let go of Gingerweed right now!"

"It's an emergency!"

"What? Don't you point your wand at my owl! _You want a tentacle head?_ "

"Marle— _ah!_ "

"Thanks," said Remus to Harry, turning to ignore the scuffle happening right in front of him. He leaned back to avoid one of James's flailing legs. "You're very good at that shield charm."

"No problem," said Harry, releasing the _protego_. He and Remus were the only two seventh year Gryffindors not covered in splattered breakfast food. Some of the other years and nearby Houses weren't as lucky, either. "It's— ah— come in handy more than once."

"This school year alone," said Remus appreciatively. He continued their previous conversation as if nothing had interrupted, "Hogsmeade is well worth a visit, if you think you can skip one weekend at the library, of course. There's this wonderful little bookshop, even, if you'd like to look at some additional resources. And we usually have lunch at the local bar, the Three Broomsticks. They make an _excellent_ chocolate cream pie—"

"Speaking of the Three Broomsticks," said Sirius, also ignoring James and Marlene's duel-slash-food-fight, "we need to stock up on booze when we go out. We're about to be _rolling_ in Quidditch wins and afterparties. Let no one say we were caught unprepared."

"No one would dare," said Remus dryly.

"That must be some letter," said Lily, watching the scuffle with her hand inching almost subconsciously toward her wand like she was about to break them up at any moment. She had porridge and bits of egg in her hair, though she had brushed off most of the crumbs from the toast that had hit her square in the nose. "We've mentioned both Hogsmeade _and_ the Three Broomsticks, and he hasn't tried to ask me out once."

"Usually, he'll try asking her out for the whole weekend first," Remus told Harry matter-of-factly. "Then when she turns him down, he'll try wheedling her out for one drink at the Broomsticks."

"Poor sad sod never takes it any easier, either," Sirius added. "Quidditch tryouts or no, he'll be moping the rest of the week."

He gave Lily a dark look, as if blaming her for ruining their first Quidditch event of the year.

Lily glared right back. "How's your everything bagel?" she asked cuttingly.

Sirius looked down at the spot where his plate had been and went slack with shock. "MY BAGEL! _PRONGS!_ "

He leapt up and tackled James on top of the table.

Harry, Remus, and Marlene dove out of the way as the boys went careening off the table on their side.

"HA!" shouted James, holding up a round, feathery mass from the tangle of his and Sirius's limbs. "Go, Gingerweed, go! To Potter Manor!"

He threw the owl into the air and then promptly disappeared under Sirius's bulk with a surprised _ack!_

"I almost had it this time, Prongs! _Everything_ on my everything bagel! Everything!"

"You say that every time, Padfoot!" James shouted, wrestling him for position on top. "But it's a pipedream! A _pipedream!_ You can never fit it into your mouth! Not once have you—"

Sirius got him in a headlock and toppled him off to the side. "I _had it_ this time! This time, I only put _edible_ things on it! It would have worked!"

James bucked until he managed to flip Sirius off-balance and get free of the headlock. "Then it's _not an everything bagel, is it?_ "

Sirius gasped as if he had been stabbed.

"They'll be at this a while," said Remus. "So, what are you studying in the library now?"

"Uh," said Harry. "Just… you know. Stuff."

Remus stared at him.

"Eloquent as usual, Parker," Malfoy's voice drawled behind them.

Harry turned around to scowl at him. "Well, what would you call it?"

"Independent study of practical applications of theoretical magic," said Malfoy with a smirk.

Harry rolled his eyes. In doing so, he caught a glimpse of gold near the ceiling, close to the head table, and had to stop himself from turning toward it like a hunting dog.

James had released the Snitch, probably the moment he dove onto the table after Marlene and Gertrude's owl.

_I open at the close. I open at the close_.

Dumbledore's last will and testament. Months in a cold, dingy tent struggling to figure out what those last words meant, if it was a clue that could bring down Voldemort or save their lives.

_I open at the close_.

"What were you and Regulus talking about?" Harry asked, forcing his mind back to Malfoy instead of a clearing in the Forbidden Forest filled with Death Eaters, Hagrid, and Voldemort.

Filled with Harry and four beloved ghosts.

"He was just congratulating me on the duel," said Malfoy, feigning indifference, but Harry could see the slight flush in his cheeks and the way his chin tilted up. "And asking me if I'd like to try out for the House Quidditch team. He's the new captain."

"Isn't he the Seeker, though?" asked Harry, thinking back to the photograph he had found in Sirius's room at Grimmauld Place. Regulus, he was positive, had been sitting in the Seeker's usual position within the team formation.

"How'd you know that?" asked Sirius sharply.

He and James had bounded back to their feet, grinning and panting, but Sirius's face turned suspicious as he caught Harry's question.

Harry felt his hackles rise, and he looked away from his future godfather. "Dunno," he muttered. "Must have heard it somewhere, mustn't I?"

"He is," Malfoy answered the original question, his tone clipped, and Harry could _feel_ him leveling Sirius a scathing look. "I am considering it, however. I've always made a handy Keeper as well as Seeker, and the spot is open."

"You're a Seeker?" asked James and, as if the Snitch were in on his plan, he caught the flyaway Snitch out of the air, cheeky and effortless.

_I open at the close_.

_I am about to die_.

James released the Snitch again, preparing to toy with it some more, but Harry couldn't take it anymore.

As the Snitch darted away from James, almost too quick to see, Harry snatched it out of the air.

He held onto it, knuckles turning white, and said as evenly as he could, "So was I."

He stood up and nodded to Malfoy. "Come on. Library."

James and Sirius stood, gaping, as they walked away.

Harry threw the Snitch in the rubbish bin on his way out.

" _Finally_ ," he heard Lily say from behind them. "That is _the most_ annoying habit ever, Potter."

Harry didn't feel like smiling. He didn't know if he'd ever be able to play Quidditch again without thinking about the Resurrection Stone inside the Snitch, of walking to his own death.

Of James and Lily and Sirius and Remus as ghosts.

They had looked more real than ever as he was about to join them.

"You don't think you'll try out for Gryffindor?" asked Malfoy as they headed down the twisting corridors.

"No," said Harry. "I don't think so."

"Potter, you love flying."

"I used to," said Harry, shoulders tensing. "How can _you_ now? After what happened to Crabbe…."

It was Malfoy's turn to tense. His jaw clicked shut as they stopped and waited for a staircase to shift over to them.

After a stony moment of silence, Malfoy said, "The war took too many things I cared about. It won't get flying, too. If you were half the Gryffindor I thought you were, you wouldn't let it take something you loved from you, either."

The staircase arrived, and they climbed up.

Harry didn't know what to say.

The war had taken too many things from him, too, but he hadn't gotten a choice about those. Why would flying be any different?

If losses were choices, he would far rather have given up his Firebolt than his parents, than Sirius or Remus or even Dumbledore. Moody. Fred. Snape. _Ron and Hermione_.

"You won, Potter," said Malfoy eventually, as they neared the library doors. "Why do you walk around like you were the one defeated?"

Harry didn't know what to say to that either.

How could Draco Malfoy understand the cost of winning? How could he understand the responsibility and the guilt that had been laid at Harry's feet from the moment he turned eleven years old?

They made their way to their usual table in the restricted section. Madam Pince didn't even ask to see their permission slip from Dumbledore every single time anymore.

They selected the books they had been working through lately and took their seats.

Sometimes being in the past still felt like a dream, like he would wake up and find that it had all taken place in his head over a single restless night. Like he would wake up to Hermione or Ron shaking him awake to take his turn watching outside the tent.

It always felt like he would wake back up in the tent.

Defeating Voldemort still didn't feel real most of the time, even when he had been back in his proper timeline. After spending the past seven years agonizing over it, sacrificing for it, fighting tooth and nail with everything he had, with everything at stake…. It was surreal to think it was just… done. After a single night.

A terrible night, yes. God, yes.

But a single night and a single spell and _done_.

It all still felt like a dream.

But sometimes…

Harry caught a glimpse of frizzy brown hair through the shelf behind Malfoy, and he opened his mouth to ask Hermione to grab that Old English book of translations—

Sometimes the reality of it hit him like a bug on a windshield.

He closed his mouth and looked away, eyes burning again.

That wasn't Hermione on the other side of the shelf.

Hermione wasn't there, even though it was the Hogwarts library, and why would _Harry_ be there if Hermione wasn't?

Dolohov had killed her.

Dolohov, who was as free as a bird in this timeline, torturing poor Gertrude before he planned to kill her too. Dolohov, with Voldemort, who was still alive and reigning in terror, despite the fact that Harry had _died_ to defeat him.

Harry's fists clenched around his book. His foot tapped rhythmically against the leg of the table.

He tried to breathe.

His desire to kill Dolohov for what he had done hadn't lessened over the past few weeks.

If anything, it kept him up more at night. Why was he at Hogwarts going to lessons, making friends with Lily, Mary, and the McKinnons, when he could be out there hunting Dolohov down like a _dog_? Sure, Dumbledore had insisted they not alter the future, but in what possible way could getting rid of Dolohov be _bad_?

More and more it seemed like a better use of his time than going back to school and spending fruitless hours in the library with Malfoy.

If Dumbledore and Malfoy were right, getting back to the future was already within Harry's power. They wouldn't find what they were looking for in the library.

Until Harry figured it out for himself, they were stuck, and he should be doing something more useful with their rare opportunity than going to school and working on homework and worrying about upcoming N.E.W.T.s.

After a couple of hours, Malfoy set down his book, stretched, and raked a hand through his chestnut hair.

Harry caught himself staring, distracted by the sudden movement, he was sure.

The long, lean lines created by Malfoy's torso, back, and arms as he stretched were far more interesting than the horribly dense Old English tome he had been struggling through. And— Harry just couldn't get used to him being a _brunet_.

It made him… softer. Something about his pointy face just smoothed out with a frame of darker, loose hair highlighted by gentle waves. It made Harry focus on his eyes, he realized.

His eyes had changed. They were no longer sharp and derisive. There was nothing gleefully mocking in his face anymore. There were bags under his eyes and faint lines of worry and grief.

Harry looked away, suddenly self-conscious. At least his thoughts on Dolohov had been derailed.

"I think that's enough for me," said Malfoy, finishing his stretch. "Slytherin tryouts are in a few minutes."

"I'll come with," said Harry's mouth, before his brain caught up. He didn't know what look he had on his face— hopefully it wasn't as embarrassing as he suspected— but Malfoy stared at him, giving a single blink of surprise. Then he looked Harry up and down calculatingly.

Harry's horror mounted as Malfoy failed to turn him down straightaway.

"Alright," said Malfoy. "Meet me out at the pitch in thirty. I need to change first."

"Right," said Harry, his mouth continuing where his brain stalled. "See you there."

They left their books for Madam Pince to return to the shelves and went their separate ways in the corridor outside.

Harry wondered if Malfoy felt as mortified by their awkward goodbye as he did.

His heart hammered as he wandered up to the Gryffindor tower for his cloak.

Why had he volunteered to watch Malfoy try out for the _Slytherin_ team? Harry wasn't on the Gryffindor team. He didn't need to spy on the competition like James and Sirius. Moreover, just the sight of a Snitch at breakfast had made him break out in a cold sweat. He didn't know…. It was stupid, but…. The last time he had been on a broom, Crabbe had died. He had been screaming, shrill and animalistic, as flames devoured him. Harry would remember that sound for the rest of his life. The last time he had been surrounded by his friends on broomsticks had been when he'd left Privet Drive for the final time. Mad-Eye Moody had died, killed by Voldemort as Harry and Hagrid tried to outrun him on that horrible flying motorbike, and Harry had been terrified Hagrid had died, too, plummeting from the sky after _jumping off_ to attack a flying Death Eater.

He didn't know how he would react to a stupid Quidditch game. He didn't know if he would be able to keep himself grounded, if he'd keep his head and remember it was just a game.

Why the hell had he volunteered to go with Malfoy when he knew he'd just spend the next couple of hours wrestling with memories of everyone around him dying? What part of that had sounded like a good time?

Harry rubbed a weary hand over his face as he gave the Fat Lady the password and let himself into the common room.

He had liked Quidditch once. Maybe he still did— or _could_. Maybe it had been Malfoy's comment earlier about not letting the war take anything else from him.

Or maybe Harry's subconscious had thought of Malfoy as Ron: familiar, a friend. And going to Quidditch tryouts with Ron was always a no-brainer.

Malfoy would be horrified by the thought he and Ron could be mistaken for one another in any way, but maybe.

"Oh, Harry," greeted Remus, looking up from his book where he was seated by the fireplace.

There were only a handful of students in the common room, most outside to enjoy the pleasant weather before winter shortened the days and chilled the ground.

"Done with your library work already?" asked Remus, glancing at the stout grandfather clock on the mantle.

"Uh, yeah," said Harry. "We weren't really making much progress, anyway. Thought I'd go watch some Quidditch tryouts after all."

Remus looked at the clock again and raised his eyebrows. "Better hurry if you want to catch Gryffindor's. Ravenclaw went first thing this morning, and Slytherin will be starting anytime now. Hufflepuff is waiting until tomorrow."

"Right," said Harry, ducking his head to hide his expression. Remus was more understanding of his… camaraderie… with Malfoy, but he didn't want to advertise he meant to see the Slytherin tryouts rather than Gryffindor's. "I'll— uh— just grab my cloak and be off, then."

He hurried up the stairs, unable to shake the feeling of Remus looking after him with an amused twist of his lips.

He got to the pitch just in time to see the end of Gryffindor's first new-team scrimmage. He could pick out James effortlessly, and the sight made him pause, breath catching.

James was the star of the team. He flew… not quite like a bird. He was steadier than a bird's sporadic, playful flight, and Harry got the impression he knew his weight and knew exactly how to move it to his advantage. He winded around the other players with speed and grace and _intent_. There was no wasted movement. It was clear he had a plan, a mental map, and years of experience. He tossed the Quaffle, caught the Quaffle, and threw it for a goal all with the same fluidity, never slowing or hesitating even as he accounted for his teammates' flight patterns.

He was a natural— a natural Chaser, a natural _leader_.

Harry's chest ached suddenly and powerfully, that deep, dark emotion welling up inside him with interminable force.

He wondered for the first time in his life: What could James Potter have done, who could he have been, if he hadn't died so very young?

Whatever it was, he would have been incredible.

Grief rose in Harry not for himself and the father he'd lost, but for _James_ and the life he could have had. It wasn't just Harry's loss. The wizarding world, Sirius and Remus's generation especially, had lost something truly remarkable with the death of James Potter.

"Ah, Parker," said a voice at once very familiar and oddly foreign. "Not trying out for Gryffindor?"

Harry spun and found himself face-to-face with Sirius in Slytherin robes. Then he blinked, and it wasn't Sirius. His eyes were too pale, though they had that same sharp, intense look Sirius often got, and his face was a little rounder, softer and younger. He might have been about an inch or two shorter, too, but the Quidditch boots made it hard to judge.

"Regulus," said Harry, thinking of his bedroom door at Grimmauld Place, of a fake Horcrux and a note signed R.A.B. Of Kreacher's profound loyalty and grief.

Regulus's dark eyebrows raised, a practiced, elegant motion.

Harry rewound what he'd said in his mind and had to stop himself from rolling his eyes. Regulus was going to stand on propriety when Harry had been in his bedroom, had lived out of his house at times and inherited his house elf. He was going to stand on propriety when Harry knew how he _died_.

"Sorry," said Harry, dry enough to crumble at a touch. " _Black_. Just a bit difficult when 'Black' is also my roommate."

"If he had any decency, he'd change his name," said Regulus stiffly. "He's been disowned."

Harry stiffened in response. "Maybe you lot should change _your_ names. He's done a lot more good with the name of Black than anyone else in generations."

Regulus's brows furrowed. It wasn't Sirius's look of stormy anger but more quizzical, puzzled.

"How odd you are, Parker," murmured Regulus. "Yesterday you were ready to duel my brother. And today you talk about him as if he were a hero. How very odd."

"Our relationship is complicated."

"If you managed to weasel your way into a relationship under Potter and Lupin's noses, and despite Mallory, I'd be inclined to agree."

Harry opened his mouth to argue— he had a _list_ of disputes with that single statement— when Malfoy arrived, a trickle of other students in green and silver flying gear behind him.

"Black, Parker," said Malfoy easily, cutting in before Harry got started. "Were you congratulating Parker on the duel, as well, then?"

Regulus cocked his head, studying Harry. On Sirius, it was always an amusingly dog-like movement. On Regulus, it was birdlike, a little more predatory, a little more alien.

"Yes," Regulus said, after a noticeable pause. He was still looking at Harry as if Harry were a puzzle he meant to solve. "I did mean to congratulate you, Parker. It was impressive the way you analyzed Sirius's fighting style and saw his weaknesses so quickly. A man with your skills would go far… in life."

Harry frowned at the undoubtedly intentional pause in there. It was clear he meant to imply something else, something specific, but seemed to be feeling Harry out before he confided his true thoughts.

"What—?"

"That'd be a no," said Malfoy, his normally composed expression slightly wide-eyed and wild around the seams. "He's a bit slow, but he would definitely decline, thank you. Now. Don't we have a field to take over from the Gryffindors?"

Regulus cast Malfoy an unreadable look before he nodded and glanced up at the still-playing Gryffindors.

"POTTER!" he bellowed so loudly and so suddenly, Harry almost jumped out of his skin. "GET YOUR RUBBISH TEAM OFF MY PITCH BEFORE WE START USING YOU FOR TARGET PRACTICE!"

_Great Merlin, he's got his mother's lungs_ , Harry thought, taking a step away from Regulus and pressing his hands experimentally against his ears to see if he could still hear over the ringing. His heart was hammering at the sudden adrenaline rush.

"Couldn't have done a Sonorus?" muttered Malfoy irritably, still cringing as he uncovered his own ears.

"Might have shattered the windows back at the castle if I yelled on top of a Sonorus, mightn't it?" Regulus remarked. He sounded droll, and Harry couldn't tell if he was joking or not.

"Keep your hair on!" James called back at a much more reasonable volume. "Lost track of time. C'mon, you lot! Time to celebrate! That Cup is ours for sure this year!"

The Gryffindor team whooped and descended in a flurry of scarlet and gold and breathless laughter. Harry caught the smell of the wind on their robes, fresher than rain and even more exhilarating. They tromped past the Slytherins without even glancing at them, heading back toward the locker rooms.

Regulus ghosted from Harry's side to take charge of his Slytherin team candidates, directing them and the equipment toward the center of the field.

"Ah, Harry!" said James brightly, catching sight of him. "You came, after all! Hey, what did you think of that last play with the Peruvian barrel roll? Spent all summer coming up with it!"

If he was planning a secret revenge prank, he was a damn good actor. He seemed genuinely pleased to see Harry.

"It was great," said Harry, his defenses weakened with honesty. "You're an amazing flyer."

"Ah, well," said James, preening. Harry suspected he was trying to feign modesty with that shrug, but it ended up looking more like he was flexing to show off his well-muscled shoulders, which were a bit broader than Harry's.

Harry found himself smiling despite himself.

"And what were you and Reggie chatting about before he started shrieking like a banshee?" asked Sirius archly, taking off his gloves and wrist braces.

"Can't your brother have a conversation without you sticking your nose in it?" Harry snapped, his pleasure in James's companionship disappearing like a candle being snuffed. "It's no wonder you two can't get along if you never leave him alone. He's his own person, you know, and he's allowed to talk to who he wants _about_ what he wants."

"When I leave him alone," Sirius began heatedly, "he makes stupid decisions that get him in trouble!"

"And _you've_ never done that before." Harry was surprised he didn't choke, he used so much sarcasm.

Sirius's expression was almost funny. He didn't seem to know whether to be shocked, offended, angry, or confused. "You have no idea what I—"

"A complicated relationship indeed," came Regulus's voice, still droll, as he appeared with crossed arms and raised eyebrows. "Sirius, it seems we have a genuine Gryffindor-Slytherin mediator in Mr. Parker. You wanted to know what we were talking about? I insulted you, and he came to your defense saying you were the best person to bear the name 'Black' in generations."

Sirius's face went utterly blank. Even James's eyes widened in surprise.

"And now you've insulted me, he jumps to my defense," finished Regulus. He glanced sidelong at Harry and said to Sirius, "I wonder what he would do if I insulted you to your face? Which of us would he jump to the aid of?"

They were all looking at Harry as if they had never seen anything so fascinating.

Harry crossed his arms defensively and muttered, "Sirius can stand up for himself."

Sirius's face scrunched in consternation, but Regulus's lips tilted, the beginning of a smile.

"Interesting," said Regulus quietly. "Are you complimenting Sirius's ability to defend himself, or are you saying you wouldn't come to his defense if I were to verbally eviscerate him?"

Harry refused to answer, even though they seemed to be waiting for it.

"I wonder where your true loyalties lie," murmured Regulus. Then he looked at James and said, much louder, " _Get off my field, Potter_. Parker, you may stay and watch if you like."

With that, he swanned off.

The silence he left behind fell heavy and stifling.

Harry heard his blood rushing through his veins. His breath was too fast.

Here he was, yet again at odds with his future father and godfather.

He just— Regulus had _died_ to thwart Voldemort's plans. And instead of making Kreacher drink that potion in the cave a second time, he had done it himself. He had chosen to sacrifice his own life instead of a house elf's, despite everything he must have been raised to believe. And Sirius— Sirius had died rushing to Harry's rescue. Stupid, reckless… wonderful, brilliant, loyal Sirius.

Why couldn't Harry have it both ways? Why shouldn't he defend both Black brothers, even from one another? If they only knew…

"Why would you say that about me?" Sirius's question finally broke the uncomfortable silence. He looked so lost, so confused. "You don't even like me."

Harry's breath was short. He clenched his fists, his nails digging bloody crescents into his palms.

"I don't…" he began but had to stop and catch his breath. He tried again, voice hoarse, "I don't _hate_ you. I just…."

_I just want you to be_ my _Sirius_.

Something jagged lodged itself in Harry's throat, and he couldn't speak. He could barely breathe.

"Come on, Pads," said James quietly, taking Sirius by the arm even as he gave Harry a concerned look. "They're about to start…. See you, Harry…."

Harry didn't respond. He closed his eyes, clenched his fists, and tried to get air back into his lungs.

"Get it together, Scar-head," said Malfoy, and Harry felt the pressure of a hand grasping his shoulder. He clung to it, trying to ground himself in any way he could. Malfoy continued, "You've never seen me play Keeper before. You've got to watch."

And then he was gone, joining the small crowd gathered around Regulus to hear how tryouts would be held.

By the time Harry could breathe and open his eyes without the world going dark around the edges, the flyers were in the air.

He watched only half-heartedly, his mind on death, as he had known it would be.

It had been great, he thought weakly and with a shade of bitterness, for that one moment he had watched James fly.

Sirius and Remus had always told Harry he flew like his father. Now he had seen it for himself, perhaps for the only time he ever would.

Because Harry and Draco might leave, return to their time, before Malfoy even got to play his first match as a Keeper. And then James would be dead again. Just like all the others.

Harry tried not to think about it. He really, honestly, desperately tried. He couldn't bear thinking about returning to his own timeline, about having to _move forward_ in a place where Ron and Hermione were _gone_.

He focused on the Slytherin tryouts as hard as he could.

Regulus was a graceful flyer. Not flashy by any means, but a Seeker didn't need to be flashy. They just needed to be observant and fast. By his scrupulous judging of the candidates, he was both.

How long did he have left? Two years, two and a half?

Two and a half years for Regulus Black to go from this epitome of a pureblood heir, a perfect Slytherin, a talented Quidditch player, to a young man disillusioned about his entire life and prepared to die in order to change it.

Two and a half years for Regulus Black to become one of the grasping, decomposing Inferi beneath the surface of a lake in a far-distant cave.

Since Ron and Hermione's…

Well.

Harry was the only wizard alive who ever found out what had happened to him. His family, his friends, Voldemort… they had never learned the truth.

He forced his eyes away from Regulus.

Malfoy was a good Keeper. Better than Ron by a longshot, if only by his consistency.

Even from the stands where Harry sat alone, he could see Malfoy's grin, sharpened by that familiar edge of competitiveness.

He was enjoying himself.

Harry looked away, disquiet prickling, and studied the other players, trying to pick out which ones were regular team members and which were auditioning.

The hour went by in a blur. At some point, the rejects began to join Harry in the stands and watch the rest of the candidates, and then the slapdash practice of the new team playing together for the first time.

Malfoy made Keeper.

Harry only noticed it was over when the audience around him began to get up to leave. He trailed after them. His foot had barely stepped onto the grass at the bottom of the stands before Malfoy was there, cheeks flushed from the bite of the wind and brown hair swept back from his face like spun sugar. The rest of the Slytherin team made for the locker rooms, but Malfoy stopped by Harry and plucked his goggles from his face.

"Well?" he asked, breathless from exertion but still grinning. "Am I as good a Keeper as Seeker, do you think?"

Harry tried for his own competitive grin, but it felt false. "Hard to say, isn't it? You never once beat me as a Seeker."

"Oh, shove off!" Malfoy laughed. He seemed lighter than he had been in weeks. "We can't all be as bloody reckless as _the Boy Who Lived_. Some of us want to _continue_ living."

"I wasn't reckless… unnecessarily."

"Implying there's a _necessary_ amount of recklessness?"

Harry shrugged. "What's Quidditch without a few broken bones?"

Malfoy let out a startled laugh, and then he said, "Merlin, the sad part is I think you actually believe that. Was there a single year that went by _without_ you ending up in the hospital wing?"

Harry opened his mouth to retort but then stopped. He thought about it.

Malfoy's teasing expression turned thoughtful, too.

"Hm," said Harry. "That's weird. First year, maybe? I ended up in the hospital wing, but I don't think it was Quidditch related…."

He thought about it some more.

"I understand why I can't remember," said Malfoy eventually, "seeing as I wasn't even in your House. But it concerns me that you can't even remember."

Harry shrugged once, still trying to recall. "First year I nearly swallowed the Snitch, but I only ended up in the hospital wing at the end of the year over the philosopher's stone incident. Second year—"

"Ugh, that rogue Bludger to the arm. And then that imbecile removed your bones. Most disgusting thing I've seen in my life."

"Cheers. Third year, those dementors…."

Malfoy shuddered. "I hated you," he assured Harry. "But my stomach still sinks every time I remember you falling. Merlin, you were so high, and it was so stormy we couldn't even see what had happened until you were halfway to the ground."

"Yeah, you arsehole, I still remember you dressing up as dementors the next game trying to get a rise out of me, thanks."

"It would have been hilarious," said Malfoy primly, sticking his nose in the air, "except, for some unfathomable reason, you could produce a Patronus at _thirteen_ , you _twat_."

"Fourth year was canceled because of the Tournament," Harry continued, feeling vindictive satisfaction in leaving Malfoy hanging when he was clearly hankering for an argument. "Fifth year…. What happened fifth year?"

"You got banned after the first game," said Malfoy, his voice practically crackling from the dryness, "for attacking me like we were in a Muggle pub fight."

"Oh," said Harry, remembering. "Well, you shouldn't have said that about my mother, should you? Or Ron's."

"I have since seen the error of my ways," said Malfoy and, though curt, he sounded sincere. "Though, to be fair, we might have won that game with your friend's worthless efforts as a Keeper if you hadn't just snatched the Snitch right from under me. I was lashing out."

"So was _your_ friend," snapped Harry irritably, coming to Ron's defense in an ingrained habit. "I can't remember which one of them it was, but one of them hit me in the back with a Bludger after I'd already caught the Snitch."

"We were vicious little things, weren't we?"

"Still can be," muttered Harry darkly. "If you ever call my mother a Mudblood again, I'll blast you through those goal posts faster than a Quaffle after a spin-slap."

" _Sixth year_ …" continued Malfoy quickly, visibly frazzled. "Well— I missed a lot of that season, actually. But I do recall laughing when I heard you'd gotten a cracked skull by your own Keeper who had stolen a Beater's bat in the middle of the game. _Un_ believable."

" _McLaggen_ ," Harry growled, thinking of Cormac McLaggen for the first time in months or more. "I woke up in the hospital wing already planning his murder. Never hated a teammate more than that one. I guess you're a better Keeper than him."

"Gosh, what effusive praise." Malfoy rolled his eyes and said, "As someone who prefers all his limbs intact, I never stood a chance against you, did I?"

"Still trying to remember if I ended up in the hospital wing in fifth year…. I'm sure I must have, but what _for_ …?"

"You are, in fact, the actual worst. Even if you weren't famous for surviving the Killing Curse, you should have died at least a dozen times by now."

Harry's mouth snapped shut. He looked away, the enjoyable atmosphere plummeting again.

It hadn't been common knowledge by the time they had been flung backward in time that Harry _had_ died again.

Malfoy didn't know Voldemort had succeeded in killing him, even if only briefly, or he wouldn't have said that. Would he?

There was a confused but calculating glint in Malfoy's eye as the silence stretched unexpectedly. Harry could see it as he began to piece it together, undoubtedly thinking of when they had first arrived in the past and Harry had assumed they were dead. _Again_.

Harry shifted, excuses to leave rushing to the forefront of his mind, but he opened his mouth only to have Malfoy shove a broomstick into his hand.

"—What?"

"I brought you a broom," said Malfoy. "The pitch is free now that Slytherin tryouts are over. Let's go for a fly."

Harry shoved the broomstick back at Malfoy, his mind shutting down even harder against the thought of staying. "No. I told you, I don't… I can't play anymore. I'm done with it."

Malfoy pushed the broom back at him. "I'm not asking you to play Quidditch. I'm just saying you should get back in the air for a minute. It'll do you some good, you broody, morose arse."

"That's not— I can't—" Harry struggled to find the words, struggled to contain his irrational panic, but then gave up. He made to push past Malfoy toward the school, gasping for breath.

"Wait just a fucking _minute_ ," snarled Malfoy, grabbing the back of Harry's robes and physically shoving him back against the wooden stands.

Harry found his wand in his hand in an instant, aimed at Malfoy's throat. " _Don't touch me!_ "

His world was getting smaller, tunneling. He was nothing but labored breathing, a pounding headache, rushing pulse.

He heard Dolohov laughing— felt the agony of Cruciatus Curse ripping through him, tearing a scream from an already bloody, aching throat—

"If you want to start another Muggle duel on the Quidditch pitch, you'll get your chance in just a moment," snapped Malfoy, getting right up in Harry's face despite the wand between them. "Look, we just spent the last five minutes going over all the traumatic experiences you've had with Quidditch, and that _never_ stopped you from playing before. You _love_ flying, damn it. If you're going to stop now of all times, it had better not be because of—"

"Of course, it is!" Harry snapped back, pushing Malfoy away from him with a hard, one-handed thrust. He was panting, his vision still blurry, but now it was a blur of red. "The last time I flew— the fiendfyre was _everywhere_ — and he was _screaming_ —"

"He was _my_ friend!" shouted Malfoy, his face suddenly contorting as he shoved Harry back. Unshed tears glittered in his pale gray eyes. "He was _my_ friend, not yours. _You_ don't get to use him as another cross for you to martyr yourself on. God, I bet you didn't even know his first name."

"Vincent," said Harry. "And he— you don't understand, Draco. I still have nightmares— the shapes coming out of the fire— and I'm not fast enough, my reflexes aren't good enough, and one of the monsters leaps out of the flames and _takes us_ , and he's just screaming the whole time, _burning_ —"

"Harry… you are dumb as a fucking rock," said Malfoy thickly. "He was trying to kill you. He would have killed you; he would have killed all of us if you hadn't found those broomsticks and gotten us out. He was my friend, but he was _not_ a good person. And you? You do _not_ get to blame yourself for that one. Now get your ass on that broom before I beat you with it, you self-aggrandizing _prick_."

Harry looked away, swallowing hard.

"It was my fault," he insisted quietly. The words he had been keeping to himself for months, even from Ron and Hermione though he suspected they knew, poured out of him in a soft, hoarse rush. "Voldemort was after me. You lot would never have been in that position if I had stayed away. Everyone who died…."

"Listen to me carefully," said Draco. "You do not get to personally decide who lives and who dies. Therefore, it is not your fault when somebody dies. If you want to play the blame game, look at it from my perspective. It was _my_ fault. After the professors evacuated the other students, I'm the one who had the bright idea to circle back around. I'm the one who brought Vince and Greg along. If I had just kept my head down and followed the professors like a good little boy, Vince and Greg never would have thought of doing that. We would have been clear before the fighting started. It was _my_ fault."

Harry glared at the ground, chest heaving, blood pumping in his ears.

He couldn't argue, but he wanted to. It wasn't right. It made sense, but it wasn't right.

"Vince is the one who tried to kill us," said Malfoy firmly, and Harry glanced up to see him looking hard at Harry, like he could tattoo his words onto Harry's brain if he tried hard enough. "You are the one who saved us. And if you couldn't save Vince, too… well, that's war, isn't it?"

Malfoy pushed the broomstick back at Harry, and Harry gripped it tightly, fighting against his body for control.

Malfoy gripped his shoulder, and Harry held onto the sensation like another lifeline, another thing to keep him grounded in reality.

After a few minutes, when his breath evened out and he could see through the blinding headache, Malfoy said, "I know what will make you feel more like yourself. Let's practice Wronski Feints. Whoever gets closest to the ground— _without breaking his neck, for Merlin's sake_ — wins. Come on."

And Harry nodded. He took a deep breath and looked down at the broom in his hands. It was an old model, older than anything he'd seen at his Hogwarts, but it looked to be brand new for this timeline. It was far newer than the usual loaner broomsticks.

"Who's is this?" he asked, inspecting it appreciatively. Whoever owned it obviously loved it and took good care of it. The handle was well-polished and conditioned, the twigs neatly trimmed.

"Regulus's," said Malfoy, throwing a leg over his own broom with a mischievous grin. "Nicked it when he went off to shout at Jones-Kieffer. I'm sure the whole castle will hear when he finds out."

Harry barked out a startled laugh as he mounted the broom. "I've never heard someone scream _so loud_ — except maybe his mother."

"He does only seem to have two volumes," observed Malfoy, smirking. "Even in the common room. He's either the picture of a soft-spoken, well-mannered Pure-blood heir, or a screaming banshee. There's no in between."

Harry found himself laughing as he and Malfoy kicked off.

The wind whipped his hair and face, made his robes stream as if in a tornado around him. The air grew colder, fresher, and rushed in his ears like a living thing all around him.

He grinned and lifted his face toward the sky, rising higher and higher.

It smelled fresh and free, ozone and wind, the lush evergreens of the Forbidden Forest, the sunbaked grass and the cool-clean water of the lake. The warmth on his face was the warmth of life, not flames. It mixed with the coldness of the wind, flushing his cheeks and the tip of his nose.

Behind and a little below him, Draco called, "Told you, Scar-head!"

…

James wasn't planning a diabolical, elaborate prank on Harry to get revenge. Unless, of course, his plan to get Harry drunk at the Three Broomsticks on their first Hogsmeade weekend counted. It wasn't so much a prank as a curiosity.

First of all, maybe they could get utterly sloshed and have a great time together. Maybe it'd break down Harry's ridiculously high guard and help them become friendlier. One could never have too many friends.

Second, it might end up being _hilarious_. Peter, for example, was an anxious sort in general, but he became an honest-to-God comedian when he had three or four butterbeers. Best thing ever.

Third, if that was a bust, it might give them some good blackmail material in case they really didn't get along and ended up needing it later.

All in all, James thought it would be a great and necessary test of character.

So, he had been surprised but genuinely pleased to find Harry at the pitch watching the Gryffindor tryouts. That was a good sign his drunkenness would lead to a brilliant, wild night rather than a horrible blackmail night.

The conversation with Regulus had thrown him— and Sirius— for a loop, though.

_He came to your defense saying you were the best person to bear the name 'Black' in generations._

"But why would he…?" Sirius began, plaintive, for the millionth time.

"I don't know, Padfoot," sighed James, rubbing the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses for the millionth time, too.

They were huddled at the foot of the stands under the Invisibility Cloak, spying on the Slytherin tryouts.

James was determined to win that Quidditch Cup this year. _Determined_.

Sirius was proving less than ideal as his second pair of eyes, though, still pacing and demanding answers about Harry Parker's very odd character. Well, pacing as much as the confines of the Cloak would allow, anyway. He kept bumping into James, interrupting his concentration.

Mallory got the Keeper position, James noted, ignoring Sirius. He was pretty good. It made him wonder how good he was as a Seeker if Keeper was only his second choice.

They added two new Chasers— a huge adjustment to any team dynamic, he'd have to keep an eye on that development— and one Beater. Screamy McMindfuck was still going, making James snicker, until Regulus finally put an end to it by burning the bat to cinders and going for a new one.

It could be a strong team, James concluded, rubbing his chin as the impromptu practice came to a close. With over half the team being new, it would come down to how well they worked together. Separately, they each had considerable talent, but James wouldn't worry a bit if it turned out they meshed like a sack full of feral cats.

"Alright," said James, pulling the ends of the Cloak closer. "I think I've got a good idea of what Regulus's strategy is going to be. Let's go—"

"Wait!" hissed Sirius, pulling James to the side. "There's Parker!"

Oh, boy.

James capitulated, allowing Sirius to guide them closer to the pitch, where Mallory and Parker were just meeting.

Together, James and Sirius inched closer and listened.

By the end, they were sitting, their legs having given out from under them. They stared at each other in silence, too stunned to react. And then, almost as one, they looked out over the pitch to see where Harry Parker was flying as wild and free as a bird.

* * *

**...**

**TBC...**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay! I had most of chapter 7 written when I posted chapter 6, but I was really unhappy with it. Instead of continuing on to finish it and write chapter 8, I decided to scrap 7 and start all over... three more times. So, basically, what I'm saying is that you've caught up with me now. I have not started chapter 8 yet. I'm planning to skip this Friday's update and try to get back on schedule starting next week. I just didn't want to make y'all wait any longer on this one. Please leave me comments and let me know what you think! I love hearing from you.


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